Love Never Dies: Murphy, Again. Or, the Second Act of the World's Most Interesting Dog
I’ve always believed in miracles. Define them how you will. Call them what you want: A shift in consciousness. A glimpse through the veil. Divine Providence. Kismet. Or for the cynics: Random coincidence. No matter your lexicon, they change you.
I write these words with baby Murph tugging at the blanket covering us both, his puppy teeth grazing at the MacBook on my lap. I first met OG Murphy in 2006 (stay with me here). It was late April in Southern California—a gauzy, foggy spring day at the beach. I was going to a local pet store to buy dog food and treats for my two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.
Walking in, I’m accosted by the fuzzy-haired proprietress, whose generosity and largess is as legendary as her strawberry blonde hair: “Kate! I’ve been looking for your number everywhere.”
"Hey Gina,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I have a Cavalier,” she says. “An owner turn-in to the rescue. I know you’ve always had Cavaliers. I have someone you have to meet.”
“Okay,” I say, nonplussed. For one, I already have two dogs at home. Also, Cavaliers, prized and pricy as they are, rarely end up in rescue unless there are serious problems. (I’ve had Cavaliers in my life since childhood—our beloved Kipp was my first and forever imprinted upon my heart.)
Gina emerges carrying a gangly mostly white dog with the odd red patch—hardly a stellar example of the breed. He looks as taken aback as I feel when she unceremoniously thrusts him into my arms.
“This is Derby,” she says. “He’s 11 ½ months old. Owner turn in.”
“Wow,” I say. “Why? Do you know anything more?”
“Nope. Just that he needs a home, and I thought of you.”
“I’m flattered,” I say. “Can I have a minute or two to think it over?”
“Sure,” she says. “Take all the time you need.”
I carry the adolescent pup out to the parking lot and stand beneath an olive tree. I hold him up and look into his kohl-rimmed eyes. “Are we doing this?” I ask. “Who are you, little dude?”
He looks back, unblinkingly. Stares into my soul. And I know deep down in my bones that this is my dog. No arguing with fate.
But there is the matter of logistics. I have two Cavaliers at home and am seriously dating a man who has a dog of his own. Four dogs is a lot in a condo in Laguna Beach. I call my boyfriend, “Chuck,” I say, “I need to ask your advice.”
His opinion (sweet man), turns out to be that I should do whatever I think is right. I close my eyes, ask for guidance, and it comes to me in a flash. I’ve never bonded with the older of my Cavaliers (still quite young at three years old). It’s difficult to explain but I’d always felt like he wasn’t supposed to be my dog, but I feel that this one right in front of me is. And suddenly I know the answer. I make a quick call.
“Kelly,” I say, “this is going to sound odd, but you know how your mom recently lost her older Cavalier to cancer? Well…how would she feel if I gave her Tucker? I know she loves him.”
“Wait,” Kelly says, “are you serious? My mom loves Tucker.”
“I know,” I say, “and I have an opportunity to rescue another Cavalier who needs a home and this way everyone wins.”
“Give me five.”
Ten minutes later and the plan is solidly in place. The new dog is going home with me, and Kelly and her sweet mama are on their way over to pick up Tucker.
Some people look at me askance when I get to this part of the story, but those people never had a Murphy staring them down. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that dog. But now I’m getting ahead of myself.
After we had a plan in place—and no, I didn’t feel a second of guilt: Tucker was going to people who loved and wanted him and would spoil him rotten forever (and they did), and the new guy was getting out of a cage and going to a loving home of his own—I picked the new guy up again and looked into his almond-shaped eyes.
“Derby, huh?” I say. “Is that your name? I’m from Kentucky, dude. Don’tcha think that’s a little obvious.”
He stares back at me. Fearlessly, unnervingly.
“Okay,” I say. “You tell me, little dude. What’s your name? What’s your name supposed to be?”
I hear it as loudly as if someone had spoken beside me: “Murphy. My name is Murphy.”
“So that’s how we’re going to do this,” I say, impressed. “Well, Murphy, I’m Kate.”
What followed were nearly 15 years of bliss. Murphy wasn’t my "baby," he was my companion. He was The Kid. And he was perfect. He had swagger and sweetness. He was my best friend, confidant, traveling companion, and an all-around badass. And reminded me an awfully lot of the Cavalier we had growing up, Kipp.
Once, I was visiting my former mother-in-law in Cape Coral, FL and she remarked that Murphy and I seemed to have a preternatural connection. As if we’d been together in many lifetimes. I turned around to differ (the ignorance of youth!) but was met suddenly with a floor-to-ceiling display of kitchen goods labeled “Kipp.” I bit my tongue, laughed out loud and picked out a dish towel.
I was a peripatetic gypsy those days—dividing my time largely between Laguna Beach and either Lexington or Nashville with the odd stop in between of San Francisco, Mill Valley or LA. And Murphy was my constant companion. At one point, Southwest Airlines jokingly deemed Murph their mascot.
He was so much fun. He was the Steve McQueen of dogs. He had so much insouciance, yet so much innocence. He chased squirrels and moose (in life and on TV, respectively). He loathed crows and seagulls. He tolerated chickens and horses. He loved traveling (trains, planes, automobiles, you name it). He loathed skateboards (and barked embarrassingly at the motorized carts at airports).
He loved food. And I mean everything—except for undressed salad greens. Only once, I made the mistake of mixing in a handful of raw spinach with his dinner. Murph painstakingly pulled each leaf out one-by-one and placed them in a tidy pile to the left of his bowl.
That dog was a character. He loved people and he loved food, but (other than, arguably, me) he usually loved food more. His kingdom for roasted chicken or steak! But he wasn’t too picky—he’d routinely shake people down for a stray green bean or french fry at a cafe, charming them with his good looks and limpid eyes—he grew into quite the dapper dude. And no one could refuse him. The dog was charm personified.
He was independent (an anomaly in a breed known as “velcro dogs”). If he hung out with you, you knew it was because you’d been granted, as my friend Russell put it, an audience. He was patient. He’d calmly wait for me outside restaurants and classes and poetry readings (though I usually found a way to get him in). He was brilliant. We did obedience, agility and therapy dog classes together and he qualified for both Therapy Dog I and II certifications. He was also intuitive.
Once, we were doing a therapy visit to a homeless shelter and, off leash, Murphy glad-handed his way around the circle of people seated in the room. He stopped at a man laid out on the dank rust-colored carpet, pressed his body beside him, and did not move for the rest of the hour. The man approached me as we broke apart to leave. “I was having the worst day of my life,” he said, “and Murphy just knew. He just sat with me. He changed it."
Murphy had a way of looking at me (and I suppose, I at him); we just got one another. We’d been accused more than once of having a sort of telepathy. I suppose that’s what happens when you share your life with a very special dog. And I bet if you’re the sort of person that reads a story like this, then you know exactly what I mean.
Murph and I moved back and forth across the continent several times. We climbed a bunch of hills and mountains. We went to grad school. We got married and divorced. We fell in love again with another man who loved us both. Still does.
And then the years caught up with us. It happened slowly at first: months, then weeks, then even the days barreled down upon us. Murph developed all kinds of old dog things: a nasty neurological thing called Syringomelia, a cancerous tumor on his right rear hip, then his death sentence: Congestive Heart Failure.
Each day was a gift. I researched like mad. Got him on the best meds and supplements I could source. Found out that kibble was poison (crazy stuff, look it up—particularly the candy company legacy) and put him solidly on a raw food diet which prolonged his life by a good three years. It was incredibly dramatic—his eyes, coat, and energy levels all perked up pretty much overnight and stayed that way till the light dimmed so much we all knew it was time to say goodbye.
Two weeks before he died, a good friend who happens to be an incredibly spiritual person, not to mention a Shaman and medical intuitive, came to stay with us. “He’s ready, you know,” Eden told me. “He’s just waiting on you to be ready.”
“I’m not ready yet, but I don’t want him to suffer.”
“I know, and he’s okay for a while, but know that he’s ready when you are. And he was very clear: he wants to go here at home, cradled in your arms. He’s always loved when you ‘held him like a baby’.”
October 26, 2020
Murphy passed into forever in the circle of my arms. At home, just as he wished, aided by a compassionate vet—after a last hurrah barking at crows and having consumed his body weight in ice cream. The next day, I staved off the tears long enough to write his obituary:
Murphy Buckley — Murphy “Murphycat” Buckley (May 15, 2005 - October 26, 2020) late of Dana Point, CA, passed away peacefully at home after a long illness in the arms of his longtime best friend and traveling companion, Kate Buckley.
Murphy or Murph, as he was more commonly known, was adopted by Ms. Buckley at the age of 11 ½ months. This russet and ivory Cavalier King Charles Spaniel soon grew from a gangly pup into a handsome gadabout, oftentimes compared to icons such as Steve McQueen and Clive Owen. Murphy was never sure if comparisons referred to their shared good looks, or their insouciant, adventurous spirits (some might call it “badassery”).
Whatever the case, it was commonly acknowledged that Murphy possessed both looks and verve in equal measure. Equally at home accompanying Ms. Buckley to grand events (albeit illegally), swanning about the continent (Southwest Airlines once referred to Murphy as their unofficial mascot), or snoring in Ms. Buckley’s arms after ingesting a bellyful of steak, Murphy lived life in grand style.
But, the most important legacy Murphy leaves is love. Murph was not only an inveterate volunteer (earning his Therapy Dog I and II certifications—Animal Health Foundation—and dedicatedly volunteering at nursing homes, teen shelters, youth clubs and homeless shelters), but the kind of soul that could light up any room with his lambent wit and intelligence, meltingly kind eyes and wagging white plume of a tail. To be clear, Murphy did not suffer fools, but generously forgave and adopted many into his “family” along the way.
Most notably, he was instrumental in selecting Ms. Buckley’s fiancé, Todd Henderson. Ms. Buckley knew she was a “goner” (sic) when Murphy climbed over her lap to reach Mr. Henderson’s. Mr. Henderson claims he had treats in his pocket that day, a fact which has never been conclusively proven or disproven.
Murphy maintained homes in Lexington, Kentucky and Laguna Beach, California. He recently moved to Dana Point, CA with his family, but insisted on going to regular jaunts in Laguna Beach in his “OGC” (Old Guy Chariot) to visit old friends and favorite haunts (he was particularly enamored of Lisa Childers of Laguna Beach Books).
An avid birdwatcher, Murphy’s hobbies included chasing crows, pigeons and squirrels, and barking at wheeled conveyances such as skateboards and scooters (which he viewed as an unnecessary abomination), playing soccer with tennis and racquet balls, and decimating pig ears. He was a member of the Delta Society, Animal Health Foundation, and a founding member of the Laguna Beach Hiking Club. In his later years, he grew to appreciate the fine art of the all-day nap.
Murphy is survived by Ms. Buckley and Mr. Henderson. Murphy also leaves behind loving grandparents, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, and a host of friends who also became his family, including his “Nana” Pat Albuquerque who took such loving care of him during Ms. Buckley and Mr. Henderson’s travels. Many were instrumental in maintaining Ms. Buckley's sanity during his last days, notably Melody Akhavan and Eden Clark. On Murphy’s passing, Ms. Clark fittingly remarked, “What a perfect and beautiful ‘ending,” although really just his transition as he continues into the world of Light.”
In lieu of flowers, Ms. Buckley requests that donations be given to your local humane society. She also requests that we carry on Murphy’s legacy of bravery, loyalty, community service and unfettered optimism (Murphy AKA “Tiny Dancer” would tap dance around the dining table all night till a scrap of chicken or steak would magically make its way to him).
RIP, Murphy Buckley. You were a once-in-a-lifetime dog (though Ms. Buckley wishes to put on the record that she sincerely hopes to be proven wrong in that assertion) and lived one hell of a life. You leave behind a legacy of love beyond measure. Thank you for choosing us. All of us.
July 19, 2021
As this tale is about a dog, I glossed over the part where I met my soulmate, Todd (which is its own story of serendipity), and we bought a home together in Laguna Beach. But still, there was a hole in my heart.
I don’t have children of my own (which is quite another story), and my dogs have always been my family. The loss of Murphy hit me harder than I’d anticipated. Even though I was happy with my life: fiancé, friends, family, and career, I couldn’t shake the shadow of Murphy’s absence. It was like living with a phantom limb.
I began to obsessively check Cavalier Rescue sites and social media, applying for no less than six dogs in six months and each time was turned down for an applicant that lived closer (Cavalier rescues are rare in California as most of the puppy mills are in the Midwest). We even fostered a dog of our own in the interim through “The Cavalier Rescue,” a sweet older Cavalier named Eliza. It was a honor to nurture her back to physical and emotional health, but in my heart I knew she wasn’t meant to be ours (she’s now with her ideal forever family).
Then I decided that, as long as we were working with an ethical and responsible breeder, getting a puppy wasn’t the worst thing. But the best ones I could find had a wait list of a year or two…which is a long time when your heart is broken, and I certainly didn’t want to support subpar breeding practices in a breed that has quite enough hype and health problems as it is.
It occurred to me one day that I was trying too hard. Todd and I have a saying (not original to us), “Try easier.” So I resolved to do so. I released and surrendered the entire thing to the Universe and said a prayer (or 20) that the right dog would find us at the right time, just exactly like Murphy had. “I don’t know,” I said to both the Divine and Murphy, “If reincarnation is a thing or not for dogs, but if it is and if Murphy wants to, please oh please oh please let him find his way back to me. Murphy, I miss you something crazy.”
July 22, 2021
Todd and I usually rise early to walk for an hour or so. We grab coffee at our neighborhood cafe, and walk the beach.
This particular morning—three days after my surrender experiment—I hadn’t wanted to go. I’d not slept well, and was fighting between wanting to walk the beach and stay wrapped in the sheets. And then, I clearly heard: "Get out of bed and go." And as that voice is never wrong, I did just that.
Coffees in hand, we made our way north toward Picnic Beach. Around about Main Beach, Todd wanted to turn around. I said, let’s just go a little farther—at least to Picnic Beach.
Todd agreed and we continue northward. As we emerged from the chaos of Main Beach into the quiet cove of Picnic Beach, I struck up a conversation with a mama introducing her children to the beach for the very first time. Todd continued on and was soon deep in conversation with an attractive brunette about 20 yards ahead of me.
“Kate!” he said, “C’mere.”
“Kate,” he said, “meet J. She breeds Cavaliers.”
Now, at this point, I must admit to being a bit of a snob when it comes to dog breeders. As I understand the business, have heard the horror stories, and have volunteered for my fair share of rescues, I tend to assume the worst of the majority of breeders.
“Hullo,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Turns out that J., husband and four children, live in a little town in the Sierra Nevada foothills and she’d just flown down to deliver a female Blenheim Cavalier to an older lady who was scared to fly. They raise their dogs as members of the family and breed exclusively (and sparingly) for health and temperament. I was won over.
“Sooo….,” I posited, “I suppose you wouldn’t have any puppies available? I know very few breeders of your caliber do.”
“You’re right, I didn’t,” she replied. “But then this family who was going to adopt one of the pups had a job transfer—from Nashville to Maryland!—and asked if I could transfer the deposit to a future litter. Of course I said yes. And I was going to keep him, but I guess that he’s technically available.”
“Wow,” I said. “That just happened? What can you tell me about him?”
J. dug out her phone. “Well, his name is Murphy; let me show you a couple pics.”
I exchanged looks with Todd as she flipped through adorable pics of a chestnut colored pup. “Murphy, huh?” I said. “Wow. That was the name of our beloved old guy. He passed this past October at 15 ½.”
“Wow” she said. “I’d actually never heard of that name for a dog before. Not sure why I named him Murphy—I just felt like that was supposed to be his name.”
“Uncanny. So, what else can you tell me about Murph. How old is he?”
“Well,” she said, clicking on her calendar, “let me calculate. He was born on May 15th, so he’s 10 weeks old.”
I turned to Todd, chills raising on my arms. His gaze met mine, told me everything I needed to know.
“Our Murphy was born on May 15th," I said. "This is more than a little uncanny.”
J. and I stared at one another for a long moment and I can’t speak for her, but chills were running rampant up and down my limbs despite the warmth of the Southern California day.
Todd broke the silence, “I guess we’re getting a puppy.”
J. and I laughed.
“Let’s talk logistics,” I said. And then we talked price (Murphy I was free, Murphy II, roughly the price of a used car), conveyance, and more.
One week later, J. and two of her sweet kiddos delivered Murphy II to our home. And it’s as if he’d never left.
We all fell in love immediately. And he was just as brilliant as ever. He learned to “sit” in five minutes. To “touch” in one minute. To “lie down” in five minutes. He crawls under the covers and snuggles up against us just like his namesake. He always finds the tallest stack of pillows. He loves the beach, greets strangers and dogs alike with insouciant aplomb, but hates—as my father used to put it—getting those fancy paws wet. He likes spinach. But only if it’s dressed.
September 15, 2021
Murphy II is four months old today. He looks like Murph—big feathery ears, delicate bone structure, long legs, long nose in a brachycephalic breed. And those almond-shaped old soul eyes that see right though me. Moves like Murph—jaunty and just slightly off-kilter. It's fair to say he's got swagger. He’s also a badass. Utterly fearless. Loves everyone and everything. Marches up to every situation with utter confidence.
Moves through life with the same bravery, charm, and intelligence that defined his predecessor (when our family dog trainer met Murph II, she remarked with a huge wink, “It’s almost like he’s been here before.”). He has the same kohl-lined almond -colored eyes that see right through me. He sleeps on my head (Cavalier bonnet style--it's a thing), or plastered to my side. He’s taken over my heart.
And I thought I’d never see him again.
I’ve never been more happy to be proven wrong. Murphy always was a stubborn kid.
He’s back. My kid came back. My boy came back to me.
It’s a crazy, mad, mad world, but this small miracle gives me hope. I share this with you with the humble wish that this might also give you hope. That, if you don’t already, you too might believe in magic—in miracles, in the infinite goodness, in the possibility that love never, ever dies.
I write these words with baby Murph tugging at the blanket covering us both, his puppy teeth grazing at the MacBook on my lap. I first met OG Murphy in 2006 (stay with me here). It was late April in Southern California—a gauzy, foggy spring day at the beach. I was going to a local pet store to buy dog food and treats for my two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels.
Walking in, I’m accosted by the fuzzy-haired proprietress, whose generosity and largess is as legendary as her strawberry blonde hair: “Kate! I’ve been looking for your number everywhere.”
"Hey Gina,” I say. “What’s up?”
“I have a Cavalier,” she says. “An owner turn-in to the rescue. I know you’ve always had Cavaliers. I have someone you have to meet.”
“Okay,” I say, nonplussed. For one, I already have two dogs at home. Also, Cavaliers, prized and pricy as they are, rarely end up in rescue unless there are serious problems. (I’ve had Cavaliers in my life since childhood—our beloved Kipp was my first and forever imprinted upon my heart.)
Gina emerges carrying a gangly mostly white dog with the odd red patch—hardly a stellar example of the breed. He looks as taken aback as I feel when she unceremoniously thrusts him into my arms.
“This is Derby,” she says. “He’s 11 ½ months old. Owner turn in.”
“Wow,” I say. “Why? Do you know anything more?”
“Nope. Just that he needs a home, and I thought of you.”
“I’m flattered,” I say. “Can I have a minute or two to think it over?”
“Sure,” she says. “Take all the time you need.”
I carry the adolescent pup out to the parking lot and stand beneath an olive tree. I hold him up and look into his kohl-rimmed eyes. “Are we doing this?” I ask. “Who are you, little dude?”
He looks back, unblinkingly. Stares into my soul. And I know deep down in my bones that this is my dog. No arguing with fate.
But there is the matter of logistics. I have two Cavaliers at home and am seriously dating a man who has a dog of his own. Four dogs is a lot in a condo in Laguna Beach. I call my boyfriend, “Chuck,” I say, “I need to ask your advice.”
His opinion (sweet man), turns out to be that I should do whatever I think is right. I close my eyes, ask for guidance, and it comes to me in a flash. I’ve never bonded with the older of my Cavaliers (still quite young at three years old). It’s difficult to explain but I’d always felt like he wasn’t supposed to be my dog, but I feel that this one right in front of me is. And suddenly I know the answer. I make a quick call.
“Kelly,” I say, “this is going to sound odd, but you know how your mom recently lost her older Cavalier to cancer? Well…how would she feel if I gave her Tucker? I know she loves him.”
“Wait,” Kelly says, “are you serious? My mom loves Tucker.”
“I know,” I say, “and I have an opportunity to rescue another Cavalier who needs a home and this way everyone wins.”
“Give me five.”
Ten minutes later and the plan is solidly in place. The new dog is going home with me, and Kelly and her sweet mama are on their way over to pick up Tucker.
Some people look at me askance when I get to this part of the story, but those people never had a Murphy staring them down. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that dog. But now I’m getting ahead of myself.
After we had a plan in place—and no, I didn’t feel a second of guilt: Tucker was going to people who loved and wanted him and would spoil him rotten forever (and they did), and the new guy was getting out of a cage and going to a loving home of his own—I picked the new guy up again and looked into his almond-shaped eyes.
“Derby, huh?” I say. “Is that your name? I’m from Kentucky, dude. Don’tcha think that’s a little obvious.”
He stares back at me. Fearlessly, unnervingly.
“Okay,” I say. “You tell me, little dude. What’s your name? What’s your name supposed to be?”
I hear it as loudly as if someone had spoken beside me: “Murphy. My name is Murphy.”
“So that’s how we’re going to do this,” I say, impressed. “Well, Murphy, I’m Kate.”
What followed were nearly 15 years of bliss. Murphy wasn’t my "baby," he was my companion. He was The Kid. And he was perfect. He had swagger and sweetness. He was my best friend, confidant, traveling companion, and an all-around badass. And reminded me an awfully lot of the Cavalier we had growing up, Kipp.
Once, I was visiting my former mother-in-law in Cape Coral, FL and she remarked that Murphy and I seemed to have a preternatural connection. As if we’d been together in many lifetimes. I turned around to differ (the ignorance of youth!) but was met suddenly with a floor-to-ceiling display of kitchen goods labeled “Kipp.” I bit my tongue, laughed out loud and picked out a dish towel.
I was a peripatetic gypsy those days—dividing my time largely between Laguna Beach and either Lexington or Nashville with the odd stop in between of San Francisco, Mill Valley or LA. And Murphy was my constant companion. At one point, Southwest Airlines jokingly deemed Murph their mascot.
He was so much fun. He was the Steve McQueen of dogs. He had so much insouciance, yet so much innocence. He chased squirrels and moose (in life and on TV, respectively). He loathed crows and seagulls. He tolerated chickens and horses. He loved traveling (trains, planes, automobiles, you name it). He loathed skateboards (and barked embarrassingly at the motorized carts at airports).
He loved food. And I mean everything—except for undressed salad greens. Only once, I made the mistake of mixing in a handful of raw spinach with his dinner. Murph painstakingly pulled each leaf out one-by-one and placed them in a tidy pile to the left of his bowl.
That dog was a character. He loved people and he loved food, but (other than, arguably, me) he usually loved food more. His kingdom for roasted chicken or steak! But he wasn’t too picky—he’d routinely shake people down for a stray green bean or french fry at a cafe, charming them with his good looks and limpid eyes—he grew into quite the dapper dude. And no one could refuse him. The dog was charm personified.
He was independent (an anomaly in a breed known as “velcro dogs”). If he hung out with you, you knew it was because you’d been granted, as my friend Russell put it, an audience. He was patient. He’d calmly wait for me outside restaurants and classes and poetry readings (though I usually found a way to get him in). He was brilliant. We did obedience, agility and therapy dog classes together and he qualified for both Therapy Dog I and II certifications. He was also intuitive.
Once, we were doing a therapy visit to a homeless shelter and, off leash, Murphy glad-handed his way around the circle of people seated in the room. He stopped at a man laid out on the dank rust-colored carpet, pressed his body beside him, and did not move for the rest of the hour. The man approached me as we broke apart to leave. “I was having the worst day of my life,” he said, “and Murphy just knew. He just sat with me. He changed it."
Murphy had a way of looking at me (and I suppose, I at him); we just got one another. We’d been accused more than once of having a sort of telepathy. I suppose that’s what happens when you share your life with a very special dog. And I bet if you’re the sort of person that reads a story like this, then you know exactly what I mean.
Murph and I moved back and forth across the continent several times. We climbed a bunch of hills and mountains. We went to grad school. We got married and divorced. We fell in love again with another man who loved us both. Still does.
And then the years caught up with us. It happened slowly at first: months, then weeks, then even the days barreled down upon us. Murph developed all kinds of old dog things: a nasty neurological thing called Syringomelia, a cancerous tumor on his right rear hip, then his death sentence: Congestive Heart Failure.
Each day was a gift. I researched like mad. Got him on the best meds and supplements I could source. Found out that kibble was poison (crazy stuff, look it up—particularly the candy company legacy) and put him solidly on a raw food diet which prolonged his life by a good three years. It was incredibly dramatic—his eyes, coat, and energy levels all perked up pretty much overnight and stayed that way till the light dimmed so much we all knew it was time to say goodbye.
Two weeks before he died, a good friend who happens to be an incredibly spiritual person, not to mention a Shaman and medical intuitive, came to stay with us. “He’s ready, you know,” Eden told me. “He’s just waiting on you to be ready.”
“I’m not ready yet, but I don’t want him to suffer.”
“I know, and he’s okay for a while, but know that he’s ready when you are. And he was very clear: he wants to go here at home, cradled in your arms. He’s always loved when you ‘held him like a baby’.”
October 26, 2020
Murphy passed into forever in the circle of my arms. At home, just as he wished, aided by a compassionate vet—after a last hurrah barking at crows and having consumed his body weight in ice cream. The next day, I staved off the tears long enough to write his obituary:
Murphy Buckley — Murphy “Murphycat” Buckley (May 15, 2005 - October 26, 2020) late of Dana Point, CA, passed away peacefully at home after a long illness in the arms of his longtime best friend and traveling companion, Kate Buckley.
Murphy or Murph, as he was more commonly known, was adopted by Ms. Buckley at the age of 11 ½ months. This russet and ivory Cavalier King Charles Spaniel soon grew from a gangly pup into a handsome gadabout, oftentimes compared to icons such as Steve McQueen and Clive Owen. Murphy was never sure if comparisons referred to their shared good looks, or their insouciant, adventurous spirits (some might call it “badassery”).
Whatever the case, it was commonly acknowledged that Murphy possessed both looks and verve in equal measure. Equally at home accompanying Ms. Buckley to grand events (albeit illegally), swanning about the continent (Southwest Airlines once referred to Murphy as their unofficial mascot), or snoring in Ms. Buckley’s arms after ingesting a bellyful of steak, Murphy lived life in grand style.
But, the most important legacy Murphy leaves is love. Murph was not only an inveterate volunteer (earning his Therapy Dog I and II certifications—Animal Health Foundation—and dedicatedly volunteering at nursing homes, teen shelters, youth clubs and homeless shelters), but the kind of soul that could light up any room with his lambent wit and intelligence, meltingly kind eyes and wagging white plume of a tail. To be clear, Murphy did not suffer fools, but generously forgave and adopted many into his “family” along the way.
Most notably, he was instrumental in selecting Ms. Buckley’s fiancé, Todd Henderson. Ms. Buckley knew she was a “goner” (sic) when Murphy climbed over her lap to reach Mr. Henderson’s. Mr. Henderson claims he had treats in his pocket that day, a fact which has never been conclusively proven or disproven.
Murphy maintained homes in Lexington, Kentucky and Laguna Beach, California. He recently moved to Dana Point, CA with his family, but insisted on going to regular jaunts in Laguna Beach in his “OGC” (Old Guy Chariot) to visit old friends and favorite haunts (he was particularly enamored of Lisa Childers of Laguna Beach Books).
An avid birdwatcher, Murphy’s hobbies included chasing crows, pigeons and squirrels, and barking at wheeled conveyances such as skateboards and scooters (which he viewed as an unnecessary abomination), playing soccer with tennis and racquet balls, and decimating pig ears. He was a member of the Delta Society, Animal Health Foundation, and a founding member of the Laguna Beach Hiking Club. In his later years, he grew to appreciate the fine art of the all-day nap.
Murphy is survived by Ms. Buckley and Mr. Henderson. Murphy also leaves behind loving grandparents, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, and a host of friends who also became his family, including his “Nana” Pat Albuquerque who took such loving care of him during Ms. Buckley and Mr. Henderson’s travels. Many were instrumental in maintaining Ms. Buckley's sanity during his last days, notably Melody Akhavan and Eden Clark. On Murphy’s passing, Ms. Clark fittingly remarked, “What a perfect and beautiful ‘ending,” although really just his transition as he continues into the world of Light.”
In lieu of flowers, Ms. Buckley requests that donations be given to your local humane society. She also requests that we carry on Murphy’s legacy of bravery, loyalty, community service and unfettered optimism (Murphy AKA “Tiny Dancer” would tap dance around the dining table all night till a scrap of chicken or steak would magically make its way to him).
RIP, Murphy Buckley. You were a once-in-a-lifetime dog (though Ms. Buckley wishes to put on the record that she sincerely hopes to be proven wrong in that assertion) and lived one hell of a life. You leave behind a legacy of love beyond measure. Thank you for choosing us. All of us.
July 19, 2021
As this tale is about a dog, I glossed over the part where I met my soulmate, Todd (which is its own story of serendipity), and we bought a home together in Laguna Beach. But still, there was a hole in my heart.
I don’t have children of my own (which is quite another story), and my dogs have always been my family. The loss of Murphy hit me harder than I’d anticipated. Even though I was happy with my life: fiancé, friends, family, and career, I couldn’t shake the shadow of Murphy’s absence. It was like living with a phantom limb.
I began to obsessively check Cavalier Rescue sites and social media, applying for no less than six dogs in six months and each time was turned down for an applicant that lived closer (Cavalier rescues are rare in California as most of the puppy mills are in the Midwest). We even fostered a dog of our own in the interim through “The Cavalier Rescue,” a sweet older Cavalier named Eliza. It was a honor to nurture her back to physical and emotional health, but in my heart I knew she wasn’t meant to be ours (she’s now with her ideal forever family).
Then I decided that, as long as we were working with an ethical and responsible breeder, getting a puppy wasn’t the worst thing. But the best ones I could find had a wait list of a year or two…which is a long time when your heart is broken, and I certainly didn’t want to support subpar breeding practices in a breed that has quite enough hype and health problems as it is.
It occurred to me one day that I was trying too hard. Todd and I have a saying (not original to us), “Try easier.” So I resolved to do so. I released and surrendered the entire thing to the Universe and said a prayer (or 20) that the right dog would find us at the right time, just exactly like Murphy had. “I don’t know,” I said to both the Divine and Murphy, “If reincarnation is a thing or not for dogs, but if it is and if Murphy wants to, please oh please oh please let him find his way back to me. Murphy, I miss you something crazy.”
July 22, 2021
Todd and I usually rise early to walk for an hour or so. We grab coffee at our neighborhood cafe, and walk the beach.
This particular morning—three days after my surrender experiment—I hadn’t wanted to go. I’d not slept well, and was fighting between wanting to walk the beach and stay wrapped in the sheets. And then, I clearly heard: "Get out of bed and go." And as that voice is never wrong, I did just that.
Coffees in hand, we made our way north toward Picnic Beach. Around about Main Beach, Todd wanted to turn around. I said, let’s just go a little farther—at least to Picnic Beach.
Todd agreed and we continue northward. As we emerged from the chaos of Main Beach into the quiet cove of Picnic Beach, I struck up a conversation with a mama introducing her children to the beach for the very first time. Todd continued on and was soon deep in conversation with an attractive brunette about 20 yards ahead of me.
“Kate!” he said, “C’mere.”
“Kate,” he said, “meet J. She breeds Cavaliers.”
Now, at this point, I must admit to being a bit of a snob when it comes to dog breeders. As I understand the business, have heard the horror stories, and have volunteered for my fair share of rescues, I tend to assume the worst of the majority of breeders.
“Hullo,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Turns out that J., husband and four children, live in a little town in the Sierra Nevada foothills and she’d just flown down to deliver a female Blenheim Cavalier to an older lady who was scared to fly. They raise their dogs as members of the family and breed exclusively (and sparingly) for health and temperament. I was won over.
“Sooo….,” I posited, “I suppose you wouldn’t have any puppies available? I know very few breeders of your caliber do.”
“You’re right, I didn’t,” she replied. “But then this family who was going to adopt one of the pups had a job transfer—from Nashville to Maryland!—and asked if I could transfer the deposit to a future litter. Of course I said yes. And I was going to keep him, but I guess that he’s technically available.”
“Wow,” I said. “That just happened? What can you tell me about him?”
J. dug out her phone. “Well, his name is Murphy; let me show you a couple pics.”
I exchanged looks with Todd as she flipped through adorable pics of a chestnut colored pup. “Murphy, huh?” I said. “Wow. That was the name of our beloved old guy. He passed this past October at 15 ½.”
“Wow” she said. “I’d actually never heard of that name for a dog before. Not sure why I named him Murphy—I just felt like that was supposed to be his name.”
“Uncanny. So, what else can you tell me about Murph. How old is he?”
“Well,” she said, clicking on her calendar, “let me calculate. He was born on May 15th, so he’s 10 weeks old.”
I turned to Todd, chills raising on my arms. His gaze met mine, told me everything I needed to know.
“Our Murphy was born on May 15th," I said. "This is more than a little uncanny.”
J. and I stared at one another for a long moment and I can’t speak for her, but chills were running rampant up and down my limbs despite the warmth of the Southern California day.
Todd broke the silence, “I guess we’re getting a puppy.”
J. and I laughed.
“Let’s talk logistics,” I said. And then we talked price (Murphy I was free, Murphy II, roughly the price of a used car), conveyance, and more.
One week later, J. and two of her sweet kiddos delivered Murphy II to our home. And it’s as if he’d never left.
We all fell in love immediately. And he was just as brilliant as ever. He learned to “sit” in five minutes. To “touch” in one minute. To “lie down” in five minutes. He crawls under the covers and snuggles up against us just like his namesake. He always finds the tallest stack of pillows. He loves the beach, greets strangers and dogs alike with insouciant aplomb, but hates—as my father used to put it—getting those fancy paws wet. He likes spinach. But only if it’s dressed.
September 15, 2021
Murphy II is four months old today. He looks like Murph—big feathery ears, delicate bone structure, long legs, long nose in a brachycephalic breed. And those almond-shaped old soul eyes that see right though me. Moves like Murph—jaunty and just slightly off-kilter. It's fair to say he's got swagger. He’s also a badass. Utterly fearless. Loves everyone and everything. Marches up to every situation with utter confidence.
Moves through life with the same bravery, charm, and intelligence that defined his predecessor (when our family dog trainer met Murph II, she remarked with a huge wink, “It’s almost like he’s been here before.”). He has the same kohl-lined almond -colored eyes that see right through me. He sleeps on my head (Cavalier bonnet style--it's a thing), or plastered to my side. He’s taken over my heart.
And I thought I’d never see him again.
I’ve never been more happy to be proven wrong. Murphy always was a stubborn kid.
He’s back. My kid came back. My boy came back to me.
It’s a crazy, mad, mad world, but this small miracle gives me hope. I share this with you with the humble wish that this might also give you hope. That, if you don’t already, you too might believe in magic—in miracles, in the infinite goodness, in the possibility that love never, ever dies.