In May 2012, my mental health was precariously positioned to dip after moving into my first solo adult apartment. After years of living with a roommate and two dogs, the nights were too quiet, my brain was too loud, and I felt the dark edges of my controlled depression start to poke their way through nearly immediately. So when my new boss mentioned she loved a particular dog rescue, I leaped at the chance to bond with her and fill the silence in my home in one fell swoop.
Two days later, I found myself sitting on the floor of a local rescue with a warm ball of white fur cozied into my lap. Despite the tumor on her shoulder, her cloudy eyes, and clearly rotting teeth, I felt an immediate pull to her. While all the other rescue pups played in circles around us, barely giving me the time of day, the white fluff snuggled closer. “I think you found your dog,” the shelter owner said to me. And that was that.
Rory, as I dubbed her (after all, I was a young single mom who grew up in a tiny town in Connecticut, what else could I have named her?), was estimated to be just over one year old and some sort of poodle mix, due to her non-shedding wavy coat. The shelter informed me that when they’d picked her up off the streets of downtown Los Angeles, they noticed her nursing nipples and determined she had very recently had puppies. Likely backyard bred and dumped, since her pups were never found abandoned anywhere in the area.
With Rory in my home, the missing piece of my new life was filled. Her innate ability to stave off my anxiety and depression has even gotten her fully certified by my therapist as a support dog. She immediately charmed my new office (and yes, boss) with her cotton ball fur, stubby legs, and obsession with string cheese. To know Rory is to love her—even as she approaches 15 years old—there is not a single person she has not converted to her favor, including my dog-averse mother, cranky neighbors, and several terrified children. She’s my favorite shadow and constant companion, and I have given her the absolute best life (it’s what she deserves!).
Her forever happy spot is still on my lap, over a decade later.
And though Rory has been my sweet codependent sidekick for over a decade, the thought of what happened to her puppies piqued my curiosity again and again, especially on my harder mental health days.
Turns out psychologists have coined a term for this: ambiguous loss. “Ambiguous loss is a loss without closure,” explains Doriel Jacov, J.D., L.C.S.W., a psychotherapist in NYC. “This most often manifests as a loved one being physically absent but psychologically present, or vice versa. Unlike with death, there’s no ritual or clear ending, which leaves one in a state of frozen grief.”
This frozen state can have a slew of negative effects like mental fog, sluggishness, and even dissociation, he says. As someone who already experiences anxiety and depression, I did not assume that I was feeling any of those things about Rory or her puppies—why would I? Until I was offered the opportunity to get her DNA tested earlier this year.
Embark is “the world’s largest canine DNA database,” according to the vet-backed, science-forward brand, which is partnered with Cornell University College of Veterinary Medicine to bring you the most accurate breakdown of your dog’s breeds, traits, age, and even allergy and nutrition quirks. All it takes is a swipe from your dog’s cheek sent in the mail, and then three weeks later, the results are delivered straight to your inbox.
Rory’s breed results were fun to learn. Embark revealed she was mostly poodle (as predicted) and Maltese (should have known from her stubby legs!), as well as a smattering of cocker spaniel, Lhasa apso, and a mix of breeds they call “supermutt.” After a few minutes of reading through her extensive (42-page!) genetic breakdown, I noticed another tab available—one that read “Relatives”—and was shocked at what awaited me.
In the extensive database (Embark approximates over 3 million dogs!), they found two immediate relatives of Rory’s. Two sons.
Upon clicking through their profiles, I learned that Barney had a sister, Betty, and they had been a bonded pair since birth! I also learned that Clyde loved watching TV and cuddling. The amount of relief I felt upon learning this information was palpable. My shoulders felt lighter and an emotional burden I did not realize I’d been carrying with me for the last 13 years immediately evaporated. Embark confirmed that her puppies went to safe homes and lived happy lives. They were not forgotten on the streets of LA in a box somewhere, left to die—a worry I had not consciously acknowledged since her adoption.
This makes sense, since closure is the only way out of ambiguous loss. “Closure allows the narrative to be finalized,” Jacov says. Although we have no plans to meet Rory’s children any time soon (we traded the LA wildfires for NYC snowstorms four years ago), I feel a newfound calmness in just knowing they exist out there. Although I’d initially thought the Embark DNA test was pricey at $200, I’d easily pay 100 times that price for concrete answers to quiet my brain’s infinite anxieties.
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