Farewell to a Very Good Boy

Cooper on his final walk

Friends, I’ve been publishing stuff on this website for nearly eight years now, and virtually all of it has been goofy, silly, or just weird. But sometimes, life intrudes. This is one of those times.

Yesterday, my family and I said goodbye to our dog, Cooper. He was 15 years old.

We adopted Cooper as an eight-week-old puppy. He was so small, he couldn’t climb the stairs to our second floor. So I carried him.

A few nights ago, at bedtime, Cooper had an episode—we’re still not sure what exactly happened, but his hind legs were spastic and unstable—so once again, I found myself carrying him upstairs. I put him on his cushion in the corner of our bedroom, and he slept.

Then, my wife and I talked. And decided.

Cooper had been declining for a long time, but this decision came abruptly. And for logistical reasons, the time between making that decision and actually carrying it out was just 24 hours.

We were grateful to have found a vet nearby who makes house calls. So the process, for Cooper, at least, was peaceful and comfortable. He lay on a rug where he’s napped so many times in the past. As we held and stroked him, he was sedated, licking his favorite creamy treat until his tongue slowed, then slowed more, then went still. A few moments later, the needle. Moments after that, this, from the vet, quietly: “His heart has stopped.”

I could go on, writing hundreds of words about our dog, about dogs in general, about lessons they teach us on love, loyalty, joy, and so on. But I won’t. (You’re welcome.)

Instead, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite poems. It’s by Billy Collins, from his book “Aimless Love”:

A Dog on His Master

As young as I look,
I am growing older faster than he,
seven to one
is the ratio they tend to say.

Whatever the number,
I will pass him one day
and take the lead
the way I do on our walks in the woods.

And if this ever manages
to cross his mind,
it would be the sweetest
shadow I have ever cast on snow or grass.

Take care, everyone.

Yours Truly,

Mark