Friday Forward - Good Boy (#469)
It's so hard to say goodbye
This is, without a doubt, the hardest Friday Forward I’ve ever had to write.
Last March, we were heartbroken to learn our family dog Ollie’s liver was failing. The veterinarian couldn’t say how long he had—maybe weeks, maybe months—but we braced for the worst. Breaking the news to our kids was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do.
But Ollie surprised us all with far more time than we ever expected, living happily and comfortably until this past weekend, just two days shy of his 10th birthday—a birthday he happened to share with me.
I’d like to say Ollie was my dog, but the truth is, I was a distant second to my wife. He was her loyal four-legged shadow, following her everywhere around the house. Ollie always wanted to be near people and was the ultimate lap dog. He’d hop on the bed or couch and stretch out on your chest, or even your head, no matter how awkward it might have been for you. And he did the same to guests.
It’s hard to overstate the impact this little 15-pound furball had on our lives. He was a part of our family in every way, and I find myself reflecting on the many ways Ollie enriched our lives. Here are a few that stand out:
Unconditional Love: It’s incredible to think about the depth of a relationship you can have with someone you’ve never had a conversation with. Ollie and I never argued—though I tried to start a few—because he simply couldn’t take the bait or hold a grudge. We could learn something from how patient, kind and consistent dogs are with the people they love and the people who love them.
Responsibility: While no court could enforce a child’s promises that they’ll walk a dog every day if you get them one, Ollie taught our kids the importance of caring for someone else, starting at a young age. Watching them learn and grow through their bond with Ollie was beautiful, and making that final call to each of our kids was the hardest part of Ollie’s passing.
Exercise: Ollie loved walking and hiking, and those things became regular family activities purely because of him. We spent so much more time outside together as a result. By my rough calculation, Ollie was responsible for adding at least four million incremental steps to our lives—steps that will undoubtedly help extend our own lives and health.
Sometimes it’s hard to know which memories and moments will stand out, but these are the ones that come to mind as I write. Tellingly, even though many of these were frustrating at the time, they bring a smile to my face today.
How nervous he would get every time we packed our suitcases, often placing himself in front of or even on top of one, as if to stop us from leaving.
The time he bit into a baited hot dog on a fishing rod during vacation, leading to an unexpected trip to the ER to remove the fishhook.
His inability to grasp the concept of fetch—he’d grab the ball and run off with it no matter how many times we tried to teach him.
His fearless habit of charging at large trucks, which we were certain would one day be his undoing.
His nightly habit of climbing into the dishwasher to “pre-clean” it for us—a quirk I’m convinced contributed to us recently replacing the dishwasher because its hinges gave out.
On Friday night, his last day truly being himself, he somehow managed to grab a loaf of fresh bread off the counter and ate two-thirds before he was caught. Ollie wasn’t tall enough to reach halfway up the countertop, even on his hind legs, so we still have no idea how he pulled off the heist.
When we took him to the emergency room Sunday, we asked the vet if the bread overdose might have caused some of his symptoms. She assured us it hadn’t and shared a heartwarming thought: perhaps Ollie knew his time was near and treated himself to one last, grand meal.
That idea put a smile on my face, especially because he’d stopped eating Saturday morning, so it really was his last meal—and a well-deserved indulgence.
Everyone in our family has a little hole in their heart this week, but our minds are filled with a lifetime of memories to replay and cherish forever. The love Ollie gave us is a gift and a true reminder of the saying, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
Quote of The Week
"The world would be a nicer place if everyone had the ability to love as unconditionally as a dog.” - M.K. Clinton
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Thank you for your transparency. anyone who has lost a dog feels your pain.
Your words reminded me about a lesser-known song by the philosopher Jimmy Buffet (RIP):
She never tells me that she's sick of this house
She never says, "Why don't you get off that couch?"
She don't cost me nothing when she wants to go out
I want you to love me like my dog
She never says I need a new attitude
Her and your sister ain't always in a feud
When I leave the seat up, she don't think that it's rude
I want you to love me like my dog does, baby
When I come home, want you to just go crazy
She never looks at me like she might hate me
I want you to love me like my dog
She never acts like she don't care for my friends
She never asks me, "Where the hell have you been?"
She don't play dead any time I walk in
I want you to love me like my dog does, honey
She never says, "I wish you made more money"
She always thinks that pull my finger's funny
I want you to love me like my dog
She don't get mad at me and throw a major fit
'Cause I said her sister was a bitch
I want you to love me like my dog does, baby
When I come home, want you to just go crazy
She never looks at me like she might hate me
I want you to love me like my dog
Why won't you love me like my dog does, baby
Also, for everyone here reliving their own dog goodbyes, I've always loved this poem:
The Power of the Dog
Rudyard Kipling
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it’s your own affair—
But… you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!).
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?