June 20, 2020: Time flies. Fast. I remember when I first adopted Trout. She was a tiny little fluffy faced ball of chocolate kisses. I would walk her and wait patiently as she stopped to explore every blade of grass, to greet every bug, to offer a wag to every person who passed. Now we're twelve years on and I watch her sleep, her body pulsating with every breath, her legs twitching, and sometimes, running. Her head slightly moves as I adjust on the couch. She is vigilant to my every move and I to hers. These days, I don't jump out of bed at night when I hear her cough or stretch because I'm worried she'll eat the remote but instead, it is because I know her days are numbered. Each day that passes is another closer to the end. Closer to a time when I will walk alone. And I can't stand the thought of her taking it without me by her side.
I tell Trout to let go, but in my heart I hope she holds on forever. I kiss her head, smooth my hands down her snout and look into her eyes, now cloudy like an early winter day. I whisper, "I love you" because more than anything in this world, I do. More than anything.
That is why I know I must let her go. The final act of my love for her is for me to just let her go. To kiss her that last goodbye and to send her off to the heavens, the rainbow bridge, beach, or wherever dogs wander off to for eternity. But then what?
Then I start a different life. Not better by any means. Just different. With different priorities and different dreams.
I tell Trout to let go, but in my heart I hope she holds on forever. I kiss her head, smooth my hands down her snout and look into her eyes, now cloudy like an early winter day. I whisper, "I love you" because more than anything in this world, I do. More than anything.
That is why I know I must let her go. The final act of my love for her is for me to just let her go. To kiss her that last goodbye and to send her off to the heavens, the rainbow bridge, beach, or wherever dogs wander off to for eternity. But then what?
Then I start a different life. Not better by any means. Just different. With different priorities and different dreams.
March 3, 2021: 
I wrote that almost a year ago, and Trout, my lovely chocolate lab, my best friend, my baby, has now been gone since August 2020. In the end, it wasn't old age but bone cancer that took her from me. She held on to the bitter end. Hot Doc (our vet) said I'd know when it was time...and she would tell me. She would stop following me around...but she never did. Everywhere I went she'd trudge along, just longing to be by my side. People always ask, "When do you know it's time?" In fact, I asked that over over again. "You just do" is often a response. For me, I knew it was time when it hurt my heart more to know that she was likely suffering than it did to let her go. Don't make the mistake in thinking that means it was easy to let her go. It wasn't. It hasn't been. It still isn't. That last day haunts my memories. I've thought of it over and over, wondering if I didn't wait too long, or if I did it too soon. I just know that my personal pain and grief is much easier to bear than the thought of Trout in pain.
I wrote that almost a year ago, and Trout, my lovely chocolate lab, my best friend, my baby, has now been gone since August 2020. In the end, it wasn't old age but bone cancer that took her from me. She held on to the bitter end. Hot Doc (our vet) said I'd know when it was time...and she would tell me. She would stop following me around...but she never did. Everywhere I went she'd trudge along, just longing to be by my side. People always ask, "When do you know it's time?" In fact, I asked that over over again. "You just do" is often a response. For me, I knew it was time when it hurt my heart more to know that she was likely suffering than it did to let her go. Don't make the mistake in thinking that means it was easy to let her go. It wasn't. It hasn't been. It still isn't. That last day haunts my memories. I've thought of it over and over, wondering if I didn't wait too long, or if I did it too soon. I just know that my personal pain and grief is much easier to bear than the thought of Trout in pain.
So she's gone...and a few short months later I also lost her best friend, our adopted boy, BG, to bone cancer. It's a simple fact, big dogs get it. But oh, why mine and why so close together! BG helped me so much after Trout was gone. Helped me to realize that there was still beauty, and that hole in my heart would eventually heal. He took that hole and filled it with Giant Alaskan Malamute hair and slobbery kisses.
There's still a hole in my heart, and a certain emptiness that wasn't there before, but, I've filled that hole with other things to hide the numbness and help me move forward. I've rescued a couple Great Pyrenees who are the most adorable dogs. They make me laugh, smile, frown, and even make me angry. At times, they make me wonder why I bothered to do it all again. I think the reason is, despite everything, I didn't want to give up on dogs. I wanted to make a difference, even if it's just in a few white fluffy dogs' lives...and I've done that already. So join me now as I move not on, but forward, past what was and toward what will is and will be. And love your pups. Hold them tight. Kiss them goodnight. And be the person your dog thinks you are.
