Best Dog In The World

a story about having to say goodbye

The minivan shuddered violently and I gripped the steering wheel. I’d felt a car shake like this one time before: when I was seventeen, and the transmission on my station wagon gave out while I was driving to work. I worried my minivan was facing the same fate, but after a few rumbles, things shifted back to normal. I stayed on high alert, but relaxed enough to resume the conversation I’d been having with my nine-year-old, chatting about the swim practice we were driving home from.

At a stoplight, I stared at the dashboard, trying to decide whether stopping for gas could wait until the morning when the gas marker dropped from an eighth of a tank to well below empty. Then, the engine light came on. The battery light, too. The seatbelt light, even though my seatbelt was still firmly buckled. I scanned the dashboard and confirmed: every single light had flashed on. 

“Say a little prayer this car gets us home,” I told my son, trying to act casual. 

I picked up my phone to call my husband and the light changed to green. 

“I’m not sure if my minivan is going to make it home,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant and unconcerned for the benefit of my son. I pressed the gas pedal, unsure if the minivan would go forward. 

“Just get home safe,” he said as we glided forward. I held my breath at every stoplight, sure that at one of them, the light would turn green and we wouldn’t move. But after each red light the minivan did its job, moving us a little closer to home. Finally we turned off the main road, leaving the stoplights behind. The entrance to our neighborhood came into sight. 

I moved over into the turn lane, the neighborhood just feet away, and felt the car shut off. I pushed the gas pedal, further and further down, and the van kept slowing. I called my husband again. 

“We’re going to coast as far as we can, but I don’t think we’re making it home,” I told him.

//

Three days later, with a new alternator in my minivan, I sat at a stoplight after picking up my kids from school. My phone screen lit up with a text from my husband. 

“At the vet and she isn’t liking what she sees. Fingers crossed it isn’t major.”

My mind started racing: I knew our dog, Sandy, was getting older. She’d joined our family six years before, when my middle child was just six months old. We’d gotten her from a rescue, so she was already six when she joined our family. The average lifespan for a boxer-lab mix is twelve to fifteen years, so logically I knew we were probably getting closer to the end of her life. But just the week before, she’d easily walked a mile and a half with me. 

In fact, she’d seemed in perfect health until only a few days earlier, when we’d noticed her breathing sounded a little off. This morning was the first time that she hadn’t been in our bed like she normally was. I’d brushed it off, thinking the height of our bed—taller than average— was finally getting to her, so she’d opted to stay in one of our kids’ beds, a little lower to the ground, all night instead. 

“Fingers crossed,” I texted back, starting to think about how I was going to talk about Sandy’s limited days to our nine-year-old. He loved her the first moment he saw her, when he was two-and-a-half. He told anyone who would listen stories about Sandy, bringing her up in everything from school to the celebration time in children’s church. If he was sad, snuggling with her was his go-to coping mechanism. If he was scared, he wanted her nearby.  While our other kids loved her, Sandy played an outsized role in his life. 

When my phone rang a few minutes later, my husband’s name displayed on the screen and I answered with trepidation. I’d expected a text with the next update: this phone call could only mean bad news. 

“It’s either a really expensive emergency surgery that may or may not work, or we have to put her down,” my husband said. “She has a tumor, and it’s leaking. She’s basically drowning.”

Immediately, tears filled my eyes. I struggled to keep the steering wheel steady.

“Does either option have to be today?” I managed to choke out, my mind spinning as I realized her days were much more limited than I’d realized. Until this moment, I thought we still had another year or two, at least.

// 

The car crept along at a snail’s pace. I moved as close to the curb as possible, turned on my hazard lights, and gripped the wheel tightly. 

“I’m scared,” my son wailed from the backseat. “Why did this have to happen?”

I tried to be reassuring as I watched cars approaching in my rearview mirror. I wasn’t sure if my hazard lights were actually working, given the current state of my car, and it was dark outside, with no streetlights nearby. One car went around me, and then another. We’d made it further than I thought we would, and I started to think about whether or not it would be wise to attempt the left-hand turn I needed to make to get us home. 

The minivan gave another shudder, and made the decision for me: it wasn’t moving another inch. 

// 

“Let me ask a few more questions and call you back,” my husband said. I hung up and started thinking about the cost of the surgery. I knew saying yes to it would be financially irresponsible, but I couldn’t imagine saying no. We told people all the time that Sandy was the best dog in the world, and it was true. She was so patient with our wild, energetic house full of boys. She hated thunderstorms but took her responsibility to protect us seriously. At the first rumble of thunder, she would start pacing around the house, checking on each member of the family until the storm had passed. I always felt better knowing she was there when my husband was out of town. She’d kept me company on countless walks, her pink leash bright against her sandy-colored fur as she trotted alongside me. She always seemed to know when I was sad, and despite being much larger than your average lap dog, didn’t hesitate to sit right in my lap, just like she saw my kids do. 

I didn’t want to tell my kids anything until I knew more information and tried to muffle my sobs from the front seat. 

“Mom, are you crying?” my oldest asked. 

“Um, I was just thinking about a sad story I heard earlier,” I fibbed. He wasn’t fooled, but I brushed off his questions, not yet prepared to tell him what was going on.

We were almost home—just yards from the entrance to our neighborhood—when my husband called back.

“It has to be today,” he said. “Either option. If we don’t do surgery, it’s a matter of hours, maybe a day.” I took a deep breath and he added, “Hold on, I need to ask something else. Call you right back.” 

We pulled into the garage, and I started unloading the car. My nine-year-old, much faster than the younger two, was inside sitting on the couch in Sandy’s favorite spot.

“Where’s Sandy?” he demanded the minute I got inside. 

“Hold on a sec,” I told him. “My phone’s ringing.” I walked into the backyard so I could talk to my husband without the kids listening in. 

“I want to try the surgery,” my husband said. “I know it’s expensive, but what if? What if we could have more time with her?”

I’m normally the responsible one when it comes to money, the one who pays our bills and keeps tabs on our bank account. I’m the one who turns down fun ideas when we’ve been hit with unexpected expenses. But I agreed without hesitation.

“It’s going to be as soon as they close the vet,” he said. “But there’s a chance they get her in the surgery and can’t do anything, and then they’ll go ahead and put her down.”

“Can we see her before?” I asked. “Just in case?”

“Come on,” he said. “But they’re closing soon, so you need to hurry.”

I took a deep breath and walked back inside. “Alright boys, I need everyone back in the car,” I said as I grabbed the keys. “Sandy is at the vet and she’s really sick. She has to have surgery, and we need to go see her.”

My husband was waiting for us in the parking lot when we got there. “Things have changed,” he whispered to me as I started unbuckling car seats. “They did x-rays. Surgery isn’t an option anymore.”

Tears streamed down my face as he gathered our boys around him. “Sandy is really sick,” he said, clearing his throat. “They did some x-rays, and the surgery we wanted to do isn’t going to work. We have to…” his voice trailed off and he wiped at his eyes. “We have to tell her goodbye,” he said. 

Our nine-year-old’s whole body shook with his sobs. Our four-year-old frowned. “I don’t want to tell Sandy bye.” Our six-year-old crossed his arms, not sure what to do about the crying family members surrounding him.

Trying to gain our composure, we walked into the vet’s office. My husband pointed us towards the room, and we filed in somberly. He pushed a button on the wall, and a minute later, Sandy nosed her way in. Her tail wagged in joy as she made her way around the room, licking each of our faces. The vet was kind, telling us to take all the time we needed. 

All I could think about were all the things I would have done differently that day if I’d known. How I would have let my nine-year-old stay home from school to have one last day with her. How I would have filled my camera roll with pictures of her and her bowl with treats. How I would have searched under the couch for all her favorite toys and played with her all day long. How I wished we could have given her a perfect day for her last. Instead, she’d followed me around the house while I rearranged furniture. I tossed her scraps when I cleaned the kitchen. Instead of coming home in between school pick-ups, I’d taken my four-year-old to the park. 

And now, she’d never come home again.

“Does anyone want to tell Sandy anything?” I asked, unsure, exactly, how we were supposed to do this. 

We sat on the floor, whispering our goodbyes in her ear. The vet told us she must be in incredible pain, but she sat in my lap, one last time. She let our nine-year-old rest his head on her, comforting him a final time. She licked our tears away.  

//

We replaced the alternator in the minivan. Some new parts and a mechanic who knew what they were doing, and we were back on the road. I’ve driven hundreds of miles since then, the minivan chugging along just like it did before. 

But healing a broken heart isn’t so easy.

For months, Sandy’s dog bed sat empty at the foot of our bed. Unable to bring ourselves to move them, her food and water bowls stayed in their spots for far longer than they probably should have. Our nine-year-old set up a little shrine to her in his room—a favorite photo, her collar, toys, and treats. 

A year has passed since we had to say goodbye. Our kids have all turned a year older, but they each keep a framed picture of Sandy in their room. Her collar and favorite toys still sit on our now-ten-year-old’s bookshelf. 

Every few weeks, my five-year-old still tells me, “Mommy, I didn’t want Sandy to die.” 

“Me either, buddy,” I tell him. We’ve been asked, by our kids and by our friends, if we’ll get another dog. My husband and I have talked about it here and there; but every time we come back to the same conclusion. 

“I don’t want another dog,” I tell him. “I just want Sandy back.”

“Me too,” he agrees. “Me too.”

Even now, a year later, there are days I walk in the door and expect her head to lift from her favorite spot on the couch. 

And I know that no matter how many days go by, that last moment with her will always stay with me. Her head, in my lap. Her fur, dotted by my tears. The kind vet, walking me through what was about to happen. A prayer that, in her last moments, I could offer her a tiny fraction of the comfort she’d given me during the six years we were lucky enough to have the best dog in the world.