“You have two choices,” the vet said. “You can either put him to sleep, or bring him tonight for emergency surgery, and he might not survive.” That was the day I brought him in for what I thought was a stomachache. I did not expect that diagnosis. We weren’t ready. I didn’t want him to go under the knife when he might not even survive it. Dying alone on a cold slab with a bunch of strangers.
Blaze had spleen cancer, and other tumors in his body along with internal bleeding. The vet said he wasn’t really suffering. He was in a little discomfort, but not pain. He was just tired, just old. We didn’t want to take those last days away from him, or away from us.
He ended up living six more weeks.
We got to grieve for those six weeks knowing he was about to die — a kind of pre-grief — but it was also a lot of quality time spent with our pup. I went out of town for a week for and left him in the loving care of my wife and my parents. I thought I might never see him again. Before I left, I dug a grave for him in the back yard, so my father could lay him to rest in a shady spot under the trees when his time came. When I returned, Blaze was still hanging on. He wasn’t eating much, but he was hanging on. He waited for me.
Some of those last weeks we had to carry him up and down the stairs when he needed to go out. My wife slept downstairs on the couch with him nearby when I was away to make it easier for both of them. Stairs were tough for him, but when it was time to play with his visiting dog-friends in the neighborhood, he always seemed to get his energy back. Sometimes, it seemed as if he would live forever. He was a good boy.
The night he died, he woke us up, pacing around the bedroom, unable to get comfortable. He always slept in our room near the foot of our bed. I sat on the floor with him and gently stroked his head, comforting him as I rubbed his ears the way he liked. He was there one minute and gone the next. I felt his body get tense, and as I gave him one last pet, he was gone. Best friends together for one last moment.
I buried him in the backyard, a little bit beyond the invisible fence — a line he was never really allowed to cross, but always watched from. He’d stand there looking at the deer passing in the woods, the fox running by. He chased them often. But he always came back.
Blaze was the best friend I never knew I wanted. They say dogs are only with you for part of your life, but you’re with them for their whole life. That concept always hit me hard. I had him from 10-weeks old until his last breath. Nights by the fire pit. Days at the beach. Walks around the neighborhood, hikes on the local trails. And car rides—he loved car rides. He got to see a lot. He got to do a lot. Plenty of trips to the outdoor restaurants and stores that allowed him in. He’d go to CVS pick out a bag of treats or to Homegoods to select a toy. And every time he’d accompany me to Home Depot, someone in an orange apron always had a cookie for him, even though he normally wouldn’t eat it. He was too busy with all the sights and smells and people. He loved meeting new people.
He was the only retriever I ever met who didn’t like to fetch, didn’t like tennis balls (okay, half retriever, half poodle), but he loved his plushies. Over the years, he learned that the toys that got holes in them got thrown away, and he took very good care of his plushies in his later years. He’d chew on them, then lick them, like he was checking to make sure they were okay.
On top of his grave sits a bunch of stones, and a metal dog sculpture I made a while back. Now when we look out into the backyard, into the woods, there’s always a dog — a black shadow, a silhouette, sitting there. It’s Blaze, watching over us, watching over that stretch of land he never got to roam but always protected anyway.
He was a good friend. The goodest boy. He’ll always be missed. He’ll never be forgotten.