Grief, Relief and a Tiny Miracle

Sometimes, life offers us tiny, inexplicable moments—glimpses of something beyond understanding. They catch us off guard, leaving us with nothing but words to try and describe what we’ve just experienced. But on Sunday evening, just hours after our sweet Guppie passed, I captured something on video. Something I can’t explain. But this time, I can share it with more than words.

Two of Guppie’s greatest joys in life were simple, beautiful things.

One was riding beside me in my open-topped Polaris Ranger—Blue Bessi. He would jump up onto the bench seat, sit tall next to me, nose in the air, ears bouncing with each bump as we made our way up and down the rocky terrain of this mountainside. Every now and then, he’d give me a side glance, as if to say, We’ve got this. We’re a team.

The other was sitting quietly with us by the pond in the lower forty, where Dennis and I would rest in two Adirondack chairs with a little bench nestled between them. Guppie would settle in that space, his front legs crossed, soaking in the stillness, the smells, the sounds—peace only a country pond can offer.

In the spring, when the peepers emerged and the pond came alive, we’d stay there into the evening. The world around us shimmered with new life—the peepers peeping, the bullfrogs groaning and croaking, the newts gliding through the shallows. Overhead, clouds would drift across the sky, their reflections floating on the water like slow-moving dreams. The scents in the air were reminiscent of mudpies. It was most certainly spring.

Guppie so loved the season of warming and pond-filled evenings. But this spring, Guppie never made it down to the pond. He had grown too weak, and spring had come late. On the evening of his passing, Dennis and I drove down to that familiar spot, hoping to find a bit of comfort—some quiet, tranquil space to reflect and remember.

As we approached, we could already hear the peepers. But, true to their shy nature, they fell silent the moment we neared, vanishing deeper into the grasses at the water’s edge where they lived.

As I quietly approached my chair, the music of the pond returned—the layered chorus of frogs and peepers rising into the air once again. I paused to take a short video and said softly to Dennis, “The only thing missing is Guppie.”  As I moved toward my usual seat, the absence of him hit me like a wave. The grief was heavy. Palpable.

Then something extraordinary happened.

Just as I settled in, I heard the loudest peep—so close and sharp it startled me. I turned and looked behind me, and there, at shoulder height, clinging to the back of my chair, was a tiny spring peeper, singing his heart out. His delicate claws gripped the wood as he kept on peeping—over and over again.

Expecting him to leap away, I reached out gently with my finger. But he didn’t move. I stroked him softly, and still, he stayed. When I set my finger next to him, he crawled right onto it. I slowly lifted my hand until he was in front of my face. He turned to look at me—still peeping, steady and unwavering.

After a few stunned, miraculous minutes, watching him closely and speaking softly to him, I tried to set him down in the grasses—but he wouldn’t go. He climbed right back up my fingers. When I finally placed him gently among the marshy blades, he turned to face me again… and continued peeping. And peeping. And peeping—looking directly into my eyes.

I sank back into my chair as the darkness fully settled around us, listening to the layered chorus of frogs and peepers, trying to believe what had just happened. Trying to understand it.  Peepers just do not do that.

A few bats began to flit low across the pond’s surface. The night deepened. And then—once more—I heard the loud peeping again.

I turned on my phone’s light, and there he was—again—perched on the armrest beside my hand. I filmed him, nudged him gently, and set him down again.

Still stunned, in disbelief by what I was experiencing, I leaned back, trying to make sense of it. And then, yet again, I heard the peeping. I turned on the light—and for the third time—there he was. Near my hand. He had come back to me once more.

I recorded him again. And then my phone died.

I have never, in all my life, experienced anything like it—such a persistent, intimate, and strangely knowing interaction with one of my favorite little beings. It felt like something far beyond coincidence. Beyond logic. It was a moment I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

I stayed there in the darkness, surrounded by the swelling night chorus, my little friend peeping quietly beside me. And in that space, I felt awe. I felt him.
Guppie.

His presence was strong, undeniable. My understanding of that mysterious moment settled somewhere between hope and belief. I hoped, and then settled into belief that he was letting me know—through that tiny, impossibly brave peeper—that there are ways of communicating, ways of connecting, that stretch beyond what we humans can grasp.

I felt him say: Trust me. I am here. We will always be connected.

And in that instant, I realized—I had been wrong when I stepped into that beautiful scene and said, “The only thing missing is Guppie.”

He wasn’t missing at all. He was right there with us.

Now I understand. You are always near.

Thank you for this, your final and most beautiful gift to the one who loved you so much. 

I will always love you, my sweet Guppie-Buppie- Puppy. Now, go run and chase some fireflies with your best buddy Boomer. He’s been waiting for you.