Family & Friends

The Last Days of My Dog's Life

The last days of my dog's life

The German Shepherd knew he was dying. Old arthritic limbs made it hard for him to get up and take a morning piss. His voice was ragged and worn like ripped old cloth. Such was the irony of the difference from his heydays, and the transition to these golden years. When he was a pup, Rebel would play in the mud, as all young and healthy pups do. He would chase after neighborhood squirrels and dash home in sunset at the call of dinner.
Even at his old age, Rebel was lively with a beautiful long coat. Though at the very end his fur was shaggy with illness, in my fast-fading memory this is hard to remember.
What I will remember, though, is the way he stared at me right the moment he died. He did not get up to go outside per usual, and I saw him still lying down in the spot he would always rest near the kitchen.
The figure of the beautiful companion- limp, rusted, tired. His eyes were searching mine in
pain and fear, yet knowingness. His perky ears were hanging low, and his tail was tucked between his legs like he was at the veterinarian.
He knew he was passing over. I knew he was, too. It was all I could do not to cry, for I had to control myself to keep him peaceful the last few minutes of a much too short life.
In the first few years, Rebel was lively as a live wire, often even too energetic. What a difference it made indeed, to see him laying down on the hard floor, soon to meet with Saint Francis. For Saint Francis knew that animals know too.


As much as I tried not to cry reminiscing about everything- the long adventures in the woods, barking at passerby, accompanying me at every step of the way, I knew in my heart he was gone. Through every friendship undone, Rebel had become my constant. And now he's gone.
Rebel died 27 days and 3 hours ago. Never will I see his beautiful hazel eyes again, dim once soul exited body. Never shall I feel his long fur but as a past only recorded in photographs. Perhaps if the stars above were not so cruel as to add another, my Rebel will have been here today. Alas, it is the unkind duty of such mysterious forces that I will not again see my dog's smiling face.
I cry as I write this, and have been every day. It is hardly fair to witness such heartbreak personally. Never shall I have a more sacred bond, a more civil friend.
He is buried under the cherry tree in my backyard, which was blooming before he died and is soon to . . . merely float away. Just like him. There has hardly ever been a time in my life where such emotions are indescribable, but this is one such example. I feel numb with the fact of this new reality. Goodbye, good boy.

The Last Days of My Dog's Life
Post Opinion