Life of Barb: Tiny but Mighty
"We had the audacity to turn an elderly 4-pound canine into an outdoorswoman."
This week’s newsletter returns to the original incarnation of my Beyond a Cute Dog Painting project.
A significant number of the commissions I paint are memorial portraits. In our grief-averse society, companion animal loss is often ridiculed and pathologized, therefore silencing grieving caregivers. It is also only seen as difficult for children.
I started ‘Beyond A Cute Dog Painting’ to look directly at the pain. To honor each dog, their guardians, and the loss they endured. I began to invite companions to write an obituary to accompany their dog’s portrait. I wanted them to share their dog and their unique relationship in their own words.
The tributes capture the powerful bond between people and their dogs, as well as the profound grief that accompanies the loss of our canine companions. These loving elegies speak to the courage to love, to acknowledge that our time together is temporary, and to love anyway.
Onto this week’s remembrance. Thanks for being here, Leigh
I fall in love very fast, with dogs, that is. All it takes is one look, and my heart feels as though it’s going to explode. That’s what happened when I was scrolling Instagram and saw her tiny head, giant eyes, and pink tongue hanging out of the side of her mouth. Her face earned an immediate follow for the life of Barb.
I knew I had to paint her. I DM’d her person, Jen to ask if I could paint Barb’s portrait.
I have watched Barb from her adoption from Muttville to her travel adventures with her people, Jen and Naz. Falling in love with a dog, even one you only see online, means facing their inevitable death. I have been bracing myself for this day. I am not alone, as written about in The Agony of Adoring Online Dogs. No matter, my heart broke when I read the update on Barb’s feed. Again, I felt the call to paint and honor her.
Barb : You have been an amazing muse. I miss and love you too.
Deepest gratitude to Jen Schuetz for allowing me to share her beautiful words.
“May 12, 2025
A month ago, we started hand-feeding her. Three or four months ago, we stopped taking her outside to potty, opting to clean up our bathroom tile instead. Six months ago, her afternoon walks ceased. One year ago, I purchased tiny reusable diapers that went unused because she wasn’t having it. I wish I knew when her tail stopped wagging. Her cadence slowed, her confidence dwindled, her head grew heavy, her eyelids drooped, her vision blurred. Time slipped away effortlessly, undetected.
Her path to adoption tends to be a common tale — the storied foster fail. Our third and last animal, Loki, left us in January of 2019, and by then I was firmly rooted as a volunteer for Muttville and nearly indoctrinated to the formidable Chihuahua cult. Having a 65-pound Boxer for almost 14 years, a teeny Chi seemed implausible. Interacting with all the derps, big ears, diminutive bodies, and beady eyes, though, a fondness swelled.
On May 23, 2019, Muttville put out a call for fosters. Memorial Day weekend was approaching, and the shelter preferred to have all the dogs in homes for the holiday.
Naz and I had fostered only once prior, which ended in epic failure. The failure being us — we basically auditioned a new pup, but after five days, we weren’t sure Roxanna the Chi Min Pin was our dog. We dropped her off at the adoption event while we mulled over if we did the right thing. Naturally, she was adopted, and we couldn’t Command-Z. We cried for a week, assuming the one got away, and we were at fault.
This time around, we didn’t necessarily feel better prepared, but we were ready for take two. I remember entering the isolation room (reserved for dogs with kennel cough, mostly), passing over a wheezing Min Pin named Dolly Parton, and honing in on a snoozing, croissant-shaped wee Chihuahua.
I scooped her up in a red and white blanket — which we now have in a Ziploc bag to preserve her scent — and called out to the foster manager at the time, “We’re bringing home Barbara!”
And she never left us. Letting go of Roxanna one month prior ended up being a fated decision. I firmly believe the planets aligned — we found our perfect companion.
We didn’t officially adopt Barbara for two months due to myriad health issues Muttville wanted to get a handle on before making her publicly available. Secretly, I think staff members intentionally dawdled, knowing we’d eventually fall for her and call her family. They weren’t wrong. So for all intents and purposes, May 23rd is Barb’s Gotcha Day.
Barb saw us through the pandemic, sat perched in a sling or backpack while we wandered the city on foot, dined with us at restaurants, accompanied us on 24 road trips over four years — where she was intermittently rewarded with fancy hotel stays after enduring our camping antics. 117 nights in a tent, to be precise. We had the audacity to turn an elderly 4-pound canine into an outdoorswoman.
I cooked her food because it was cheaper and healthier. A Chihuahua of her size only eats about 150–200 calories a day, so preparing and immersion blending beef stew every three weeks became an essential part of her care. We propped her up on CBD most of her life, to ease any geriatric aches and pains, to potentially stave off dementia. I walked her daily, even if only around the block, just to keep her engaged since she had no interest in toys.
Barbara was part independent lady, part cuddle bug. She lounged outside alone on our back patio in the sun from April to October, then spent countless hours in a lap or next to us. She wasn't prone to separation anxiety, was unbothered by fireworks, rarely barked, rolled over for belly rubs, made weird trumpet noises, shivered in 80ºF weather, jumped from one rug to the other like she was playing her own game of Hot Lava.
She was weird and sweet and cute and tolerant. She transformed from a disheveled Oakland stray to queen of our home, of the mountains, of the desert, of our hearts.
After months of navigating a patchwork of pee pads on the floor and bumping into walls due to declining vision, her denouement was upon us. Thursday, May 1, blood appeared in her pee, and a cough came out of nowhere. She didn’t even finish her evening portion of food. Her comfort level was waning, rapidly. Waffling over an emergency visit to the 24-hour clinic, we agreed to call her regular vet in the morning and make the appropriate arrangements.
Understandably, neither of us slept well, but Naz was the real hero. She snuggled closer and closer to his head as the hours crept by. He laid half awake, anticipating any sudden event or worsening; she wheezed all night in his ear.
At 7 a.m. on Friday, I made an early afternoon appointment, but we couldn’t sit around till then. And truthfully, she wasn’t waiting. We left the apartment — with puffy eyes and still in pajamas, I bundled up Barb in a blanket. No harness, no leash.
We drove to Bernal Heights, so she could overlook the city with her deteriorated eyesight. We ate banana bread from Bernal Basket. A coffee stop was next on the agenda en route to the vet, but her concerning twitch in my arms made us abandon caffeinated beverages. It was happening.
Mission Pet Hospital accommodated us immediately, arranged a blanket on the table, gave us water, as well as time and space. A new-to-us doctor came in to meet her and us, explaining the now-familiar process. She had a couple of other patients to tend to, but would help Barb along as soon as she could.
Barb didn’t require any assistance. I had been holding her the entire morning, so I gently passed her blanket nest to Naz for one last cuddle session. She seemed to be dreaming. Kicking in her sleep, then one subdued bark.
The doctor returned and looked at her, “Is she still with us?” After a quick listen of her heart, she confirmed what we already suspected and hoped for her all along — she went out on her terms.
I later joked during a lighter moment of an otherwise agonizing weekend that she probably peaced out after hearing the word “injection.” Those Chihuahuas are often little hellions at the vet clinic.
The gaping hole in our hearts will need time to heal, and forever a scar will remain.
Grief is a cruel, unwelcome guest. Having experienced this process three times prior, I started to reflect on why our brains forget the gravity and brutality — I suppose it’s a survival mechanism to suppress pain and discomfort. I recall the general impact when Monty, Loki, and Shaun each left us, but the tsunami waves of hurt that rolled in and out over the immediate hours and days are an imperceptible blur.
For about 96 hours, Naz and I were truly inseparable while we endured the reverberations of her passing. Cycling through our respective breakdowns, we’d embrace each other and literally prop each other up when necessary. We attended social engagements all weekend. Neither of us wanted to be in the apartment alone. Naz brought a camp chair into the bathroom while I took a bath, just to avoid the deafening stillness in the living room. Bedtime was the worst as her tiny body no longer occupied the space between us in bed.
This loss feels so much more substantial, even more so than the departure of Shaun, my baby. We are now empty nesters. We have no human children; our only child is now gone. She was our first joint fur baby — the cats were originally Naz’s, and our Boxer was mine. Her absence seems more concentrated because we took her nearly everywhere; our boys didn’t share that luxury. Our first return to road tripping will coax out residual heartache, but I am confident it will ease as we look back fondly on our travels together.
I’ll keep her hand-knit wardrobe; I put some tufts of fur and nail clippings in a small baggie; the vet clinic made paw prints for us. And thanks to digital devices, I carry with me documentation of some of the best moments with Barbara. None of these efforts are a replacement for the life we lived with her, but it makes the preservation of her memory easier.
Time is a thief. Everything is temporary. I wish I could have slowed down time; it seems impossible that six years just vanished. I do take solace knowing we gave her an amazing second act, complete with an extended life expectancy.
RIP, Barbara “Nuggie” Schuetz-Hamid. A huge soul nestled inside a compact package, you will be supremely missed. Show our boys who’s boss at the Rainbow Bridge. We love you.” - Jen Schuetz
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A delightful read.