On Wednesday, November 12, 2025, the United States minted its last penny—and my Penny took her last breath.
Penny, in her foster home before I adopted her. The rescue called her “Miss Punctuation.”
I never planned to adopt a chihuahua. I went to the rescue event to ask about a poodle. I’d had poodles and poodle mixes my whole life. I wanted Duncan to have a companion, and the rescue had a female mini poodle that I thought would be perfect. My place in line was next to a pen with one of their adoptable dogs: a tan chihuahua mix named “Miss Punctuation.” As I stood there, Miss Punctuation came over and nudged my hand with her head so I’d pet her. The rescue person noticed and said, “She’s never like that with anyone.” I shrugged off the comment. After all, I wanted a poodle, not a chihuahua.
The poodle girl did a home visit, and Duncan soundly rejected her. Only then did I think about the rescue person’s comment. I went to the rescue’s next event and this time, hung out with Miss Punctuation. At one point, I held her. While in my arms, she snapped at anyone else who tried to pet her. She wanted everyone to know that I was her person.
She came for a home visit. She walked in, peed on all four corners of my living room rug, jumped up on the sofa, and declared herself at home. Duncan ignored her. A week later, she officially became mine. I renamed her Penny.
Penny taught Duncan how to beg.
Penny and Duncan had an odd relationship. They moved in separate orbits at home, but clung to each other at day care and in boarding. She tried to engage him in play; he had no interest. Still, she helped draw him out of his shell and taught him how to dog.
When Duncan died last year, Penny took it on herself to console me. She stayed close to me, engaged with me, led me on walks along new paths. She also reveled in finally being an only dog.
She was not happy when I brought home Ozzie. She made it clear that this was her house, but eventually, we reached a point of reluctant tolerance.
Penny had OPINIONS, and she was not shy about sharing them.
Through it all, Penny had a larger than life personality. She was the most expressive dog I’ve ever known. Duncan was a dog who took up no space. Penny, on the other hand, filled every nook and cranny. I used to describe her as being “bigger on the inside,” as eight hundred pounds of sass in an eight pound body. There was never any question about how she felt. She made sure you knew.
She loved walks and claimed every yard in our subdivision. She had a preferred routine for checking and refreshing her marks, too. And God help any other dog that dared exist in her territory. Same for the local wildlife. She chased every squirrel she encountered. She even tried to start something with two Canada geese in our front yard. It took years, but I finally trained her to accept that other dogs did, in fact, have a right to walk on the same streets she did and to exist in their own homes—even her sworn enemies, the weimaraners down the street. I was not as successful with the wildlife.
Penny hated cold weather—cold meaning anything below 70°F—and over her short life, she accumulated an impressive collection of sweaters, sweatshirts, and jackets. She burrowed under blankets, even when it was 85°F and humid outside. She toasted in sun spots. (She was a chihuahua, and everyone knows chihuahuas are solar powered.) She was a heat-seeking missile, and her favorite place to warm up was my lap.
Penny’s favorite place was on or next to me.
She was terrified of thunderstorms and fireworks. Any loud boom noises, actually. She once had a meltdown because my neighbor slammed their car door shut. Her fear got worse as she got older. Enter a Happy Hoodie and a Thundershirt. Eventually, that wasn’t enough. A couple of years ago, when she started trying to bark the thunder and fireworks away, I brought her to the vet and said, “Either she gets medicated or I do.” (She did.)
I called her “Miss Penny,” “Baby,” and “MA’AM,” and I thought she’d be with me into my own old age. After all, chihuahuas are long-lived dogs—often living into their late teens and sometimes twenties. When I adopted Penny, she was a year, maybe year-and-a-half, old. I figured we’d have close to two decades together.
Life had other plans.
On Wednesday night, Penny had a seizure. It came out of nowhere, and it was terrifying—for both of us. Then she had another one. I rushed her to the emergency vet. She had a third seizure as the vet examined her. He listened to her heart and said, “She’s dying.”
I was not prepared for those words. Penny had seen her regular vet a month before. There was no indication then that anything was wrong with her.
Penny (2016–2025)
The emergency vet managed to stabilize her, so we could talk about her situation. It was heartbreakingly clear that there was only one option: saying goodbye.
I cried. I pet her. I told her I loved her. I told her I would keep my promise to take care of her and make her all better, just not the way I had expected. She leaned over and touched her nose to mine. I’d like to think she was saying, “Thank you.”
Minutes later, it was over. A few hours after her first seizure, she was gone.
It’s going to take me a while to grapple with what happened and with the giant hole that small dog left in my life.
I hope that someday she’ll find her way back to me.
If you would like to do something to honor Penny, please make a donation to Young at Heart Senior Pet Adoptions or another rescue near you.
