When you lose a friend…

I’ve written about my dog in a couple of posts, the way he’s been such a good walker and community-relations professional. The way he’s loved an audience while doing his best to both embarrass me and connect me with my neighbors. Well, as animals will do, he took a long, slow turn for the worse, and we lost him last week. If you read my previous posts, you won’t be surprised to hear that, though he quit going for walks (largely because his back-half wasn’t functioning very well), he continued to do his business with enthusiasm—though most often, of late, on the carpet in his sleep.

I’ve had three dogs during my adult life, and I grew up with a standard poodle that was reported by my mom to be a dog, though personally, I’ve always thought of standard poodles as the neurotic movie stars of the canine world, overly groomed, leggy, not sure which way to face to see the action. My first dog, Jessie, was a lab-mix who represented the longest, most successful relationship I had with a female until my wife managed to stick around longer than fifteen years. A few years later, we got a dog from the sister of a neighbor—an odd little puppy they found just sitting in their driveway. Bentley, we named him, more because it sounded cool than because he resembled a high-end British car. Then came Samson. My wife picked Sam, who was a shy, mellow sheepadoodle. He loved everyone, literally never ran off or chased another dog or even considered biting someone. He mostly slept (and slept), an oversized dog-shaped rug who plopped himself under the table when we ate or next to my office door while I worked or in the middle of the family room when company was over. His only vice was barking at the Amazon delivery person, though I was never sure why. If I opened the door, he’d hurry out on the porch wagging, looking past the person as though whatever he’d been barking at was somewhere else. And Sam loved Halloween. We’d dress him up in a costume and he’d run to the door and stand on the porch while the neighbor kids either fell off the steps backward in fear or hugged him and petted him for the happy thing he was.

Honestly, the hardest thing for me about losing an animal is the sense of betrayal I feel. We had him put to sleep because we just plain felt like his life was getting worse and worse…yet I can’t help but feel guilty about it. Like, if I was a better owner, I could have kept him alive. Lately, he needed help to get up, he was making messes then sitting in them, even eating wasn’t much of a thrill anymore (and who doesn’t love a good bowl of kibble?). We tried every pill and chew they sell to help him feel better. Nothing, from pot gummies to pain/nerve pills to Beano, made any difference at all, despite the ads and testimonials saying, “These chews made Brutus a puppy again!” In our case, they didn’t do anything except cost me a boatload of dough. Two different vets tried. And we tried. But in the end, he just…got old. So we did what we hope was best, and his trusting face fell asleep in the arms of his family, all telling him sweet things and holding him close. It was torture…and beautiful.

Someone I once knew named Molly lost her dog many years ago, and in her grief, she asked me if I thought dogs went to Heaven. Sure, I said. Why not? Why would Heaven just be for people? Dogs are far more deserving, on the whole. At least that’s what I think. Of course, none of us really knows such things for sure. But I choose to keep a happy thought…sad as we are. It hurts to lose those we love. It’s one of the hardest parts of life. Perhaps the hardest, most inescapable part. To love is to invite loss, to know it’s coming and welcome it as part of being together in this life. Sam made our days ever so much richer, and we were lucky to have had his love all these years. We will miss him. Every time I open the door and he’s not there with his happy face to greet me, I think of how lucky I was to have had such a great little friend.