Saying Goodbye: Losing A Dog Is Losing A Part Of Yourself

NORTH FORK, NY — My dog Hachi died tonight as the July 4 fireworks illuminated the night sky. I knew it was coming; he'd been battling cancer for months. His body was thin and frail, his breathing labored.

He was tired.

But still. There's nothing that prepares you, really, for the loss of a dog. Because really, the love shared with a dog is like nothing else, a bond that I have to believe stretches far past this lifetime.

I first adopted Hachi after I heard about his plight from the North Fork Animal Welfare League. He'd been found wandering on a road, alone, abandoned. He was a senior dog, his face already framed in white the first time I saw him. He walked with a funny, bow-legged strut, and it seemed to me that someone, at some point in his life, had hurt him. Not just because of his unsteady gait. But because when I first adopted him, if I went to pet him too quickly, he'd flinch. Expecting, I suppose, the worst.

From the first, I fell in love with those big brown eyes. No matter what he'd been through or where he'd come from, those eyes were filled with so much love, so much hope. So much trust.

I named him Hachi after the Richard Gere movie which was, in turn, based on a true story about a dog, Hachiko, in Shibuya, Japan, who waited faithfully for his master at the train station for years, their reunion always joyful. One day, his owner died, and never returned. But Hachiko never stopped waiting, refusing to stop searching the horizon for his person. He waited there, cared for by the community, until he breathed his last — his story one of steadfast devotion that took the shape of a dog waiting for the one person he'd learned to trust.

My Hachi was the same. From the day I brought him home, that dog loved me fiercely. His big eyes followed me everywhere, and he wanted nothing more than just to be loved.

He loved many things, my Hachi. He loved meatballs, his fluffy bed and blanket, the squeaky toys from his special Christmas stocking, any kind of food, and his water bowl. He did not always love Daisy, my other beagle, because Daisy has food aggression and frankly, tried to torture poor Hachi until his last day.

But Hachi, he held his own. For a skinny, older dog, he had some stellar survival skills, and he refused to let Daisy quell his love of life, his joy at finally having a home of his own.

And there were moments, when the food was far from sight, that I'd find Daisy and Hachi snuggled on the couch together. Buddies, despite their battles.

In April, the vet told me that Hachi had cancer. Because of his age, there was nothing but palliative care to consider. The steroids helped, helped a lot, for a long time. They gave us the gift of moments, days, to make memories. To feed him his favorite meatballs, just one more time. To let him sniff the spring flowers and spend so many, many hours following my every move, then curled up beside me, sleeping in the place he loved most. By my side.

This house, this love he had for me, it was all he knew. This was his life, right here, and what a joy it was to see him blossom. To see his face light up. To see him turn over for a belly rub, no longer flinching but instead, welcoming my touch. Pushing my hand with his cold, wet nose so that I'd stroke his head just a little longer.

Up until yesterday, he was doing so well, my boy. But overnight, something changed. This morning, he wouldn't drink his water, tried to eat but couldn't. He stayed in his bed most of the day, except for the few times he got up, walked to his bowl, confused, not seeming to know what to do when he'd gotten there.

His breathing changed today, became more shallow, more ragged. Near the end of the day, I laid down next to his bed on the floor, and held his head in my hands, staring right into his eyes. I told him that he was such a good boy, such a loyal friend, so brave. I thanked him for fighting so hard to stay here with me. I told him how much I loved him, and how much I didn't want to say goodbye. I cried. Endless tears, really, that fell from my face to his, a testament to the way only a dog can teach you to love.

He got up once, tried to walk, and fell. I tried to lift him to his feet but he faltered and finally, I just eased him onto my lap, where he arched his head back in one endless, almost graceful movement, and left me, sitting there alone on the floor as the first fireworks exploded outside the window.

I'd like to think his spirit, that feisty, colorful, brilliantly beautiful soul, was there in the night sky as the fireworks illuminated the horizon. Certainly, he'd come into my life that way, a blazing burst of light and love that faded far too quickly, leaving a lonely trail of embers flickering in a heart gone cold with grief.

But the reality is, he's just gone. When I walk in now, he won't be waiting to try and greet me the way Daisy does, trying to jump up with those wobbly legs. He won't be curled up in his blanket, watching, always watching, with those big, brown trusting eyes. His bowl will be empty, and no meatballs will ever be quite the same again, without him here to share them with.

Dogs are family and the loss is real and wrenching. It's hard to imagine ever getting past this grief. And it's easier now than ever to realize why the original Hachiko never left his spot by that train station where he waited forever, aching with loss and hoping for that joyful day when his person would come home. When they could finally, after so many long days and nights marked by wishing, be reunited.