It is my time to say goodbye. My legs are weakening, my sight failing, smells are faint. I am wearying. My spirit is fading, and I have been called home and away from you.
I wish to be strong again, to roll in gross stuff, to snatch greasy bones, to eat all of the things you hated me to eat, to have my belly scratched for all time, to run through the fields and the woods, to smell the stories of life, and to raise my nose to the wind and see the world all over again.
I am going home. I know I leave you in loneliness and pain. That is the way of people when they say goodbye. Dogs are different. We don’t have regrets or wish that we could alter the story of life.
Although I have been called away, I leave you with the memories of our life together.
I remember a cold winter’s night when you sang to me in the dark as the wind howled and snow drifted outside the window. I felt your loneliness and knew my work.
When you looked at me and the corners of your mouth turned up, you smelled and looked different. Lighter, happier. That was my life, my work. Nothing more clearly defined my purpose. When you smiled, I knew why I was here.
I never tired of watching you, of being with you while you lived your life. I sat by your side, entering into the spirit of the moment. I supported your life, wherever it went, whatever you felt, whatever you did. I was your witness, your testament.
I remember walking in the snow. And running alongside you. And chasing after balls, Frisbees, sticks. And warm fires on cold nights. And sitting by you when you read books or watched baseball games.
I remember my heart jumping out of my chest when you came home and called my name, or grabbed a ball, or took me outside, or fed me. I hope you know that I loved all of those things—whatever you chose to bring me and give me, whatever time you spent with me, I loved.