On January 20, we had to say goodbye to our beloved eleven-year-old lab, Caesar. I’m ready to talk about it now.

Anyone who has loved a dog knows why it has taken this long; some people would need longer. But before today, I wasn’t sure if I could articulate the years of joy Caesar gave us without magnifying the void his death brought.

It was a void that overwhelmed me when I saw tangible reminders of his absence.

When I found the remnant of another rawhide bone under a bed or couch.

When I saw the empty space in the mud room once occupied by his bowls.

When I tripped over the stuffed monkey that was in the middle of the hallway.

When I looked down at the three claw marks in the carpet next to the dresser.



Each reminder gave me a little heart punch that made me wince. It was — and still is — the finality that hurts, even though we had time to prepare.

It was this past summer when Caesar developed an odd leg kick and “rolling” of a back paw. In our attempt to deny his failing health, we had some tests and bought glucosamine. But the limp progressed to an inability to navigate the stairs off of the deck. We built a ramp and went through surgery. Then as the ramp become a challenge, we tried more pills. Pills for Lyme, pills for joints, pills for pains. We gave him up to 14 pills per day.

But then we started to wonder: were the pills for Caesar — or for us?

As humans, it’s tough to decide when enough is enough. Enough for us, and enough for our pets.

But there was a point when we finally knew what “enough” was.

On Sunday, January 19, Caesar really wasn’t himself. After about a week of increasingly failing health, he couldn’t lift his head; he moved from his spot in the living room only two times that day. He didn’t want his rawhide bone, or his treats, or his toys. He just looked tired…and sad.

I texted my vet; she called back. We made the appointment for 9:30 Monday morning.

During the next 24 hours I did my best to stay strong and stay occupied so I didn’t change my mind, or continually look for signs of a miraculous recovery that would only be in my head.

I was doing fine until 9:30 pm. It was then that I fully realized that there were only hours left. How could I thank a dog for 11 years of happiness and companionship in his last 12 hours? I became overwhelmed.

As I sat quietly sobbing on the couch fully aware of Caesar’s waning life, he came over to me. I knew what tomorrow would bring; Caesar did not. All he knew was that his human was leaking and he wanted to fix it. He didn’t jump, he didn’t prod, he didn’t give me a paw. All he did was lean. He leaned into my leg and looked at me. I hugged his neck, kissed his face repeatedly, and said “I’m sorry” as I cried. He didn’t wiggle out of my grip as he normally does; he didn’t scoot back trying to wrench free. He just let me hold him to my face.

In the last hours of that night, I finally let him up on the couch and fed him an endless buffet of treats.

I stayed up until after midnight hoping that time would stop.

It didn’t.

At 9:30 on Monday, January 20, Caesar was peacefully put down at the veterinarian’s office where he went to daycare twice a week for ten years. He loved the place, and he loved all of the dogs and humans who he got to hang out with every Tuesday and Thursday. It was a calm lethargy that overtook him as four of us hugged him and whispered phrases of praise and love. It was beautiful, and serene, and sad.

Two weeks later, I still look at the claw marks in the carpet, but all of the other reminders are now gone. And the void that I felt is slowly being filled as I look at photos, search for a suitable urn for his ashes, and write these words.

Hail, Caesar.