Three days ago, my family made the decision to put our almost fifteen-year-old dog down. It was absolutely the right decision – his body was riddled with arthritis, he was often incontinent, and he couldn’t get comfortable sitting, standing, or lying down. His eyes were still bright, but they were tired, and over the last three weeks or so, he started to tell us it was time.

We talked about it for weeks, and last weekend, we decided what day we would take him in. As each day passed, I tried to come to terms with the reality that on Friday, Jameson wouldn’t exist anymore. I told friends what we were planning, I visited my parents’ house often, and we talked about the logistics – when would my brother come to say goodbye? Who would take him to the vet? It felt like I spent hours curling up next to him on the carpet, burying my face in his neck, tugging on his velvet ears as I whispered to him that it was ok – soon he wouldn’t be in any more pain.

On Thursday I went to my parents with the intention of saying my final goodbye. As the hour grew late and the sky darkened, I found that I couldn’t leave. I wanted to wake up under the same roof as my beloved dog on his last day. I wanted to pad down the stairs and peek my head around the corner into the living room and watch him lift his head, ears perky and eyes bright as I said, “are there any doggies in here?” I wanted to watch his ears lower and his head dip as I crossed the room to hold his face in my hands and kiss the top of his head, smoothing my thumbs over his white snout as he closed his eyes.

I wanted to hear his collar jingle and squeeze his soft paws – once streaked with gold, now almost entirely gray. I wanted to let him lick my hands – something I almost never did. I wanted to watch him tap his feet while he waited for his Milk-Bone and rub his face on the side of the couch to scratch an itch. I wanted to tell him I loved him and that he was the best, and I wanted to press my face to his after we lifted him into the back seat of my mom’s white Buick where he sat blissfully beside my dad, ready to take his final ride.

On Friday, I did all of those things. I also reminisced with my family about the life Jameson had had. How when he was a puppy, he used to steal shoes and eat them, and as he got older he stole them just to sit with them and occasionally lick or smell them. It wasn’t unusual to find him surrounded by a sneaker, a boot, and a flip-flop, happy as a clam. We remembered how, when my family lived in Hammond, he used to spend every meal jamming himself under the kitchen table – not to steal food, but just to be as close as possible to his people. We used to banish him to the living room and he would yip and cry until we were all in one place.

We remembered how he used to climb up and burrow his body between whichever human was on the couch and the back of it until he got so hot he’d pop up, panting, and jump down. He was never a great cuddler. He loved to have you near him until he didn’t, and then he would just get up and walk away. In his old age, when this wasn’t a feasible option, he would simply turn his head away and pretend you weren’t there. I used to feign irritation and say “Oh, excuse me, are we in a fight?” and my sister would always laugh, even the millionth time I made the same joke.

We remembered the time he terrified us all when he ran away shortly after we moved to Beverly, and how he’d cost my mom two broken bones – a kneecap when she tripped over his leash, and an elbow when she slipped on ice after throwing away a poop bag in an alley.   We remembered how he used to eat all sorts of things he shouldn’t – underwear, hand towels, grass – and then eliminate them as every animal must, much to the horror of whoever was walking him.

We remembered all the words that used to send him bolting out the door, barking like a fiend, or wagging his whole body in delight – “squirrel,” “kitty-cat,” and “car,” were guarantees – so were “Gracie,” (our neighbor’s dog) and “cheese.” Like most dog owners, we took to spelling out these words or, in the case of “cheese” simply calling it “hmm.” Unless of course, we wanted to rile him up so he would run outside and expend some energy, and then we say in high pitched voices “Jameson, kitty-cat!” and then watch him fly off the deck in search of a phantom feline.

Jameson was unfailingly gentle, and he never met a person he didn’t like. He had a tail that wagged so vigorously, we had to keep glasses and valuables off the coffee table or they would end up on the floor. His bark far outweighed his bite, and he didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body, but he would scare the daylights out of mailmen and door-to-door salesman with his “woofs” that always managed to be both sharp and deep as he jammed his face against the window, his hackles bristling.

As we remembered the life of our beloved pet, it became clearer and clearer to us that we were doing the right thing at the right time. Over the last two years, age slowly began to take away everything Jameson loved the most – other than his people and his appetite. First, he couldn’t make it up and down the slippery steps to the second floor of the house. Then he could make it down to his favorite nook under the basement stairs, but he practically had to be carried back up. Eventually, we started closing the basement door at all times.

Then he could no longer make the jump up onto the couch, and going down the front steps was out of the question. Walks around the neighborhood became walks around the block, and then, eventually, walks to the next-door neighbor’s garage and back. As arthritis ravaged the back end of his body, he could no longer wag his tail and by the end, it drooped perpetually between his legs.

Slowly, he stopped stealing shoes and his hips couldn’t support his wild runs around the backyard. He could no longer jump into the car for the rides he loved so much, and in his final weeks, he no longer met us at the door. It was just too hard for him to stand up. Through all this though, his eyes were bright and gentle, he ate full meals and treats, he slept well, and he was still stubborn as all get out. If he didn’t want to do something, he simply wouldn’t. He would dig his heels in, huff out a “no,” and simply refuse to move.

On Friday, at the appointed time, we lifted Jameson’s crippled back end up and he walked stiffly out into the yard to sit in the grass for the last time. We took pictures, hugged him, and fought back the tears that betrayed us. We walked him into the garage and helped him into the car and not once did he resist. In fact, he went joyfully and willingly, smiling, ears perked up as he looked out the window and leaned into my dad.

My mom and dad reported that he was no different at the vet – he hobbled in, lay down on the blanket on the floor of the exam room and never struggled or whimpered. He simply licked his paws and put his head down to close his eyes as the injection took effect. Perhaps I’m being idealistic, and likely I am, but I truly believe that dogs know far more than we could ever realize. I believe he knew it was his time. And he was ready – it was us who had to be convinced that it was time to let him go.

In one of my favorite Moth stories, Kate Braestrup, chaplain to the Marine Warden Service, explains that, as humans, we can be “trusted with grief” – it is as natural as loving and it is, in fact, the necessary and inevitable counterpart to love. I was startled by the grief I felt at the loss of my dog – I didn’t expect to be so sad, but given how much I loved him over the last fifteen years, I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

Jameson was a gift– for everything he was in life, and, in his death, for reminding us how to let go with dignity. Thank you for the laughs, the love, the mischief, and your endless patience, Jameson. I’ll miss you.

Until next time…