Dear Dog,

You came into our lives already a few years old, carrying a story that Mom couldn’t resist. The family who had you needed to rehome you—a tiny, protective, and scared little dog—because they were adopting children. The moment Mom heard your story, she fell in love. I, on the other hand, was immediately taken by your older sibling, the giant gray and white sheepdog who stayed behind to keep wildlife at bay on their acreage so the young family could play outside.

At the time, my brother had recently married, and Mom needed something to pour her heart into. She had so much love to give, but all the dogs she had cherished before were now memories—fond ones, yes, but still memories. The chocolate labs, the pug, the other mutts—they were gone, but their stories lived on in the way she talked about them. And then there was you, grinning on her lap, both of you beaming as if you were always meant to find each other. I’ll never forget that look of pure joy on her face when she brought you home.

The joy was short-lived that first day. When Mom went to work, Dad lost you while he was at the bar. You, this tiny little dog, were suddenly missing less than 24 hours after adoption. I came over with a flashlight, braving the dark yard and spider webs until I found you huddled in a back corner of the property. Relief washed over me your adventure would continue with her.

The truth is, you’ve always been hers. You loved her fiercely and unconditionally. Sure, you tolerated me—on occasion, you even showed me love—but your heart belonged to her, and I was okay with that. I think your life before her must have been difficult. You’ve always been slow to trust, opening up only on your terms. But even when you kept your distance, you had your ways of showing me you cared. At the dog park, you’d stay right under my feet, never straying too far. It was your quiet way of saying, we belong together.

I know you were never supposed to live with me. But life happened. Five years ago, you, and the other dog, and I became a pack. You moved into the condo, learned to tolerate me, and grew attached to her in ways only you two could understand. I made a promise that day you’d have a yard again, and we do have one now. We’ve discovered dog parks we adore, and you have all the toys, doggy daycare, and walkers you could ever need, and you love the sentences ‘want to go for a walk’, ‘car ride’.

I’ll never forget the day I found Mom, with you on her lap, her at peace, and you kissing her face.  Although she was gone, you were still here—a living, breathing connection to her love. In a way, loving you meant holding on to her for a little longer.

But now, tonight, I think it’s the end. You’re tired, and I can feel it. Tomorrow, I’ll make the call for your appointment. I’m sorry if I didn’t see the signs of your pain sooner. I’ve noticed your decline, and I trusted you to tell me when it was time. And now, I know you’re telling me.

When you cross the rainbow bridge, I know she’ll be waiting for you. Please cuddle her for me and tell her about the adventures we’ve shared—the runs, the lazy afternoons, the way we’ve missed her every day. Tell the other dogs about dog parks, and pupcups, and that I have them all close to my heart.

 I hope these last years have brought you joy, even without her here. You’ve brought me so much comfort, more than I ever thought possible. Me and the other dog will miss you terribly. Thank you for letting me love you, for being the last connection to her, and for being a reminder of the love that never truly leaves us.

Forever,
Me