Saying goodbye to your four-legged best friend and member of the family
Writing this on a cold morning in February in Chicago - missing my best friend:
Recently, I put down my dog. He was almost 15 years old. A yellow Labrador. Calvin. Named after the eponymous character in Bill Watterson’s comic,
Calvin & Hobbes.
I’ve had him since he was nine weeks old. It was a warm July day when I drove from Chicago to Des Moines to pick him up. We met in a parking lot. He looked up at me. I looked down at him. “Hello Calvin,” I said. “It looks like it’s you and me now.” I had driven my brother's SUV with the kennel in back. I made it to the next exit before pulling over. He was whimpering. I can only imagine his fears. Recently separated from his family. His mother and siblings. And driven across Iowa to meet me. A stranger. So, I moved him to the floor of the passenger seat. He sat there looking at me before walking in a few small circles and then curling up to sleep while I drove the car east towards his new home and our new life together.
My sister bought me Calvin. I can still hear her voice on the phone call. “You need a dog,” she said. “What do you mean, I need a dog,” I replied. “Trust me,” she said. “You need a dog.” And she was right. I had recently broken up with an on-again, off-again girlfriend. He quickly became a much needed distraction. Something to take care of. And, as it turns out, someone to clean up after as well.
I had never raised a puppy before. I had grown up around dogs, but that’s different than actually owning and caring for one on your own. I quickly learned that most of those early days would be spent either cleaning up messes in the house or putting my hand in a bag and picking up his poop outside. And when I wasn’t doing that, I was trying to head him off at the pass before he got into the trash or ate something gross near the alley when I wasn’t paying attention. Because if he managed to gulp that mangled mess of disgusting, the only certainty was that some time later, I’d be on my hands and knees scrubbing it from the rug while he sat there smiling and panting at me.
A few weeks after bringing him home, it was Lollapalooza weekend in Chicago. Invariably the hottest weekend of the year. My brother and I had tickets. That Friday, I rode my bike back and forth from the festival to my house to free Calvin from his kennel. 5 miles each way. And I did it every few hours. Sweating. Chafing. As I pedaled furiously back and forth. To let out the little fella. To see the joy and excitement on his face each time I walked back through the door.
Calvin would eat almost anything. Pretzels and lettuce being two of the foods he’d turn his nose up at. Vomit in the alley, might as well have been a Michelin meal. And I’d be cleaning up the mess the next morning. Either in his kennel or from the rug which he somehow always hit despite a sea of wooden floors to choose from. Racing to clean it before he ate it only to throw it up or poop it out later. Usually both.
Until the end, Calvin pooped more than most dogs. My first dog, Rufus, another lab, would take one horse-sized dump each morning. That was it. Calvin, on the other hand, was determined to catch me walking him without a poop bag. Until the end, when he couldn’t control or remember to poop, during the 14 years prior, like the sun coming up, you could count on Calvin to poop on every walk. The foreshadowing was literally on the walls the first day I brought him home. I had set him down so I could put away everything that I had transported, but not used, to transport him home. A few minutes later, when I walked around the couch to find him, there was a trail of over a dozen small turds in a semicircle stretching from one end of the room to the other. And somehow, one had even found its way onto the wall. Thank goodness for hardwood floors. Yet, in the future, he’d find the carpet or rugs. Heaven forbid his feet got cold while crapping on the floor.
Calvin was a Labrador retriever. Retriever. Which means to bring something back. Most labs that I’ve encountered are relentless retrievers. You could set up a tennis ball machine and the dog would wear it out before it tired of chasing down balls. Calvin on the other hand, was the worst retriever. He would bark and bark when I held the ball. He would tear after it once I threw it and make a bee line right towards it. Yet, as he got closer, one of two things would happen. Either he’d peel off in search of some other smell or he’d lay down with the ball in between his legs panting and smiling at me. Daring me to approach. When I would, he’d grab the ball in his mouth and tear off in another direction, spit out the ball and lay right back down with the ball between his legs, panting and smiling at me. In other words, I did the retrieving. Calvin was a leaver, not a retriever.
Calvin was with me before I met my wife. Before we had kids. Before life went sideways, inverted, and upside down. He was my wingman as a puppy. Then I got married and the family grew. He slipped down the rankings. Then the kids came. At first, it was great. He’d clean the floor after meals. My oldest daughter loved him. Then he got older. The stairs were more difficult for him. He spent most of his days in our basement.
A decade and a half. That’s what we had together. Over that period of time, we grew together. Our lives intertwined. He’d go to the office with me. He was a sideline fixture at my soccer games on weekends. We went on road trips together. When my wife and I left for vacation, we would leave him with friends eager to host him. He was part of the family. He was family.
It was heartbreaking when he got older. I’d carry him up the stairs so he could be around all of us. He slowed down. Our walks got shorter and shorter. Although the duration remained as he lingered longer at each tree to smell who had been there earlier. Me standing patiently as he examined that spot from every conceivable angle.
I hadn’t expected him to live past ten years old. My previous lab made it to 8 years old. Most labs I had grown up around made it ten, maybe twelve tops. In his last few years, he gave me a couple of scares. Never one to miss a meal, the first time he did scared the daylights out of me. I was a wreck. I’d never seen him like that. He was vomiting and defecating everywhere. Turns out, he ate something nasty in the alley. Within 36 hours, he was back wolfing down his food and doing circles between my legs.
The next instance was even scarier. Two years ago, I came back from a work trip. When I walked in the door, Calvin strained to look at me. His neck seemed to be locked. He struggled to stand up. I put my arms under his stomach to lift him. He proceeded to fall over, unable to stand. I picked him up and he flailed in my arms like he didn’t know which way was up. He began peeing all over me and once I got him outside, he fell over and pooped everywhere. I was beside myself. I didn’t know what to do. After a bit, his breathing moderated and I was able to get him to stand up with my support. I guided him back inside to his bed and called the vet. They told me to bring him in the next morning. I was convinced this was the end. That he had waited for me to come home and now was letting go. Before going to bed, I walked down to the basement to say goodnight. He was staring at the ceiling. Outside, we had put up some Christmas lights and these little red and green dots were dancing on the ceiling. Calvin was mesmerized. He used to love chasing flashlights along the floor and up the walls. This was no different. He was staring straight at them. Thinking that might be part of the problem, I went outside and unplugged them. The next morning, he was a little better. At the vet, they confirmed my suspicion. He had vertigo. They recommended some over the counter Dramamine. A few days later, he was back to his usual self. And all I could think was that I almost killed my dog with Christmas lights.
My last Calvin memory. During his final year, my oldest daughter would join me on his morning walk. It became our thing. Some mornings, she would wake early and crawl into bed with me or walk downstairs while I was doing my morning routine and wait patiently beside me. Then, we’d gear up, grab Calvin’s leash, and head out the door. Together. Calvin would slowly trudge behind us, his rear end sagging. He would smell the same trees, bushes, and rocks while my daughter and I held hands. She would balance on the tops of neighbors fences. For just over 6 months, it was our thing. Once the weather warms, we will resume our walks together. In the meantime, I’m still adjusting to mornings without him. He anchored my days and I looked forward to sharing those precious moments each morning with him and my daughter.
When he stopped eating, this last time, I knew it was near the end. He seldom pooped on our walks. He slept most of the day. Getting out of his bed was a struggle. I had already scheduled an appointment with the vet for a week later to get him checked out. Then he stopped eating. I called the vet and explained what was going on. It’s unusual for a lab to stop eating. Lack of control of his bowels likely meant some sort of cancer. Perhaps in his bowels. We scheduled an appointment for two days later. He stopped drinking water the next day. I scheduled the appointment for the evening so my kids could say goodbye after school. Then, we got 8’’ of snow We all spent the day at home. My office is in the basement with Calvin. As a result, I spent the day with him, knowing that that evening I was taking him to his death.
I was in denial. Questioning the choice. He still seemed ok. Full of love and affection. His head in my lap as I stroked his fur. When I got to the vet, I felt like I was killing my best friend. Even though the vet told me that I was being merciful. That he was going to a better place. All the right words. Yet, I still felt like I was betraying something. Taking a life that was not yet done. The vet took him back to put in the IV. They brought him back and left me a button to press when I was ready. I laid there on the ground with him. Listening to him breathing. Replaying old memories of our time together. I pressed the button. The vet came in and explained what was happening. I held Calvin’s head in my hands, softly stroking him as his breathing slowed following the first injection. Then the next shot. I sensed he had stopped breathing. I wasn’t ready. The vet said he had passed. My body rocked with convulsions as I sobbed.
I’m still struggling to make sense of his passing. Part of me says he was just a dog and that I should just move on. The other part screams that he was a part of the family. Part of my life. A bridge between who I was before marriage and kids and the man I am today. He’s been by my side through all of the ups and downs of those years. Greeting me with smiles and clouds of yellow hair everytime I walked through the door. Or as my wife so aptly described, he was my first child. That the sadness is real and profound and won’t just pass.
Walking him to our car for the last time was brutal. My eyes were wet with tears. He seemed excited to be going somewhere. And while I knew where we were going, he was looking forward to another adventure, even as the cancer was slowly killing him. It was dark and cold. I drove slowly to the vet. Even as I walked him to the door, it seemed insane that he wouldn't be coming home with me.
It’s been several weeks now. I still haven’t moved his bed. Or his food bowl. I’m not ready. Even though it hurts everytime I walk by his empty bed or look at his empty food and water bowls. I miss his hair everywhere. I miss him. In my journal, I try to practice gratitude. A frequent entry those last few years was another day with Calvin. We were together for almost 15 years. We went on over 15,000 walks together. Roadtrips. Dog parks. The office. The couch. We covered some ground together. We created a lot of memories together.
I still remember holding his head in my hands as he died. I tell myself that I did the right thing. I can still see his face as the old memories play like a movie on the far wall of my life. I gave him nearly 15 years of a happy home and lots of adventures. In turn, he gave me boundless love.
His last days weren’t his best. But I got to be there until the end. And for that I’m grateful.
I miss you Calvin. You were a good boy and a good friend. May you find all the balls to chase (and then ignore) and trees to smell wherever you are…
