When writer Isabel Klee’s dog, Simon—known on social media as Simon Sits—died in late July, she shared her grief with their millions of followers. Here, Klee recounts saying goodbye to Simon and how his legacy will live on.
“Can you play some music or something?” I pleaded to my fiancé, Jacob.
“What kind of music?” he asked. His words were careful, nervous, because there was no right answer to this question. We weren’t picking out a playlist to cook dinner to. We were picking out the song our dog would die to.
He took it upon himself to make a choice, and soon the first few chords of “Clair de Lune” were tumbling out of our speakers. I was draped over Simon’s body, his breathing steady and slow. My cries came out as gasps, and Jacob rubbed my back. “Stay here,” he reminded me. “Breathe. Be here with him.”
He didn’t mean physically—I would stay with Simon until he was ripped from my arms—he meant mentally. In this moment I couldn’t think about myself—how my heart was being ripped from my chest, how each day would be meaningless without him, how I’d never recover from the loss he was leaving in his wake. I had to be here, to honor Simon’s last, peaceful, beautiful moments. I had to guide him to whatever came next.
Photo: Adoptable Dogs of NYC
Photo: Adoptable Dogs of NYC
It was the least I could do. For seven years, Simon guided me into the unknown: through breakups, to different apartments all over New York City, isolation through a global pandemic, and major career changes. No matter what chaos I exposed him to—new boyfriends, new fosters, new homes—he was steady and consistent, my anchor as the waves of my life crashed, at first violently, and eventually, a little more calmly. He was always there, without question, without hesitation. It was my turn to be there for him.
I took a deep breath. I kissed the divot between his eyes as they fluttered shut.
When Jacob and I first started dating, he asked me what song I’d choose to represent all of humanity to an alien civilization. He was obsessed with the Golden Record sent on the Voyager—a gold-plated copper phonograph record containing sounds, music, spoken greetings in 55 languages, portraying life and culture on Earth. My answer was easy: “Clair de Lune.”
When he asked me why, I said that it sounded the way love was supposed to feel. It was beautiful, heartbreaking, high and low. It stayed with you, that feeling, long after the song was over. So as the chords swelled along with Simon’s tiny lungs, I realized that this was the only right answer. This was the only song to play. Simon showed me how love felt. Real love. Painful love. Love that stays and stays and stays, long after the song is over. Long after his life has ended.
