Thirteen years he’s walked beside me—

not always ahead, not always behind— just there,

steady as breath on a cold Kentucky morning.

 

He was there when the house was loud with fear

and I tried to outrun the bottle without breaking the glass.

 

He was there when we moved to that strange town,

and the cancer came like a stranger with a key to our life.

He watched while I made a job out of pretending to be okay,

and then sat quietly when I wasn’t.

 

He was there when my husband died—

when I looked out at the world

and couldn’t tell where the land ended

and the loss began.

 

He stood guard as I took care of my mother—

as her memory left in pieces

and I had to hold together what the illness tore apart.

 

He never looked away.

Not once.

 

He waited while I held hands that went cold,

kept watch through nights

when grief was the only thing moving,

hiked beside me when my heart was too heavy to carry on its own.

 

When a new love found me, he accepted the change

like old spirits do—

with quiet understanding.

He stood with us at Anglin Falls,

watched the vows without blinking or barking. 

Wore his title—Dog of Honor— like he was born for it.

He attended the wedding luncheon on the patio of Boone Tavern,

sniffed every corner of celebration as if joy were a scent

he could finally breathe again.

 

And now, this cursed morning, I call the vet.

I make the appointment.

The kindest,

cruelest

thing I have ever done.

 

He’s hurting.

His body betrays the soul still alert in his eyes.

And I owe him

what he’s always given me—

dignity,

gentleness,

release.

 

No one tells you that the greatest love

sometimes ends with a phone call,

a circle on a calendar,

a soft blanket

in a quiet room.

 

But this is how

I say thank you—

with tears,

with trembling,

with every fiber of me that wishes I could give him

even one day as loyal,

as healing,

as full of grace

as the life he gave me.

 

Some say

he’ll cross the rainbow bridge.

I don’t know.

But I do know

he already carried me across it

a hundred times.

 

And next week,

I will carry him there

for he no longer can walk. 

Hand on his fur.

Heart breaking,

but whole

because of him.