Hey guys. Thanks for all the love post UFC 181. That was an amazing moment in my life that I'll be able to keep with me forever. I came home last week to some not so amazing moments, and looked to write about it as a path to solace as I've done several times before. Naturally I came to cross post with the community here, because I value and enjoy your guys' feedback. Most importantly though, I hope someone gains something from it. My piece is about losing my best friend in my dog that I've had for 10 years, named Juice. Please, no jokes about his name.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."

"Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember. "I am responsible for my rose."

-The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

At this moment I’m watching one of my best friends gasp for air, spewing blood with every exhale. He’s got blood on his paws, a combination of long drips and small splatters. He offers a delayed feinted chase at a passing squirrel before remembering his condition.

In a short while I’ll take him for his last walk. It will be a slow one, I will make sure. I’ve always had a bad habit of walking in front of people. It’s rude. My favorites in life though, were the ones that could keep up, or make me go faster.

Juice could do that, he could make me run. We would run and run and run, and at the very end of our run we would race all the way back home. I didn’t have to say anything to him, he knew when the race began. Sometimes I won, sometimes he won, but we both always gave it everything, ending up at the mailbox huffing and puffing for air.

There’s no running anymore, only slow walks to and from the water bowl and the yard right now. Appetite has diminished, as well as social activity with the other dogs and humans. He’s entering a place he’s not likely to come back from, and all I want is a few more minutes with the pup he was when he was feeling well.

Another chapter is closing, as they always do. A branch of my life, of my whole experience, is withering and heading towards the ground to stay with the rest. Am I building new branches at the rate I’m losing them? Am I expected to?

As I sit here, I begin to wonder for a moment why it is I feel compelled only to write in tragedy. Better than writing nothing at all, or having nothing to write about, I suppose; both very different things, neither of which I have to worry about.

"Come closer" I can still hear her whisper, "Cuddle up." Sometimes to him, sometimes to me. "You'll miss these kisses" she promised, predicatively, if ever I fought either of them. Nostalgia is a universal feeling, what is it about mine from that time of my life that still strikes such a heavy chord? Is it the story? Should that story be contained or shared? What’s best for me? For others? Are moments like these lapses in judgement, or just lapses in invulnerability?

The changes are never ending, I know, but they go into warp drive at times. I’d like to think I’m used to the rollercoaster by now, and I don’t want stagnant, but holy fuck just slow down a bit sometimes.

He’s choosing his breaths now. For long periods he will go without breathing, weening towards a final "fuck it" maybe, before deciding "alright I’ll hold on a bit longer." How much is the effort worth? Isn’t that always the question though?

We slept on the floor last night. Neither one of us slept much, his labored breaths waking us both every few minutes. I’m looking at him before bed tonight, and wondering if this is going to be the night. I’m looking for a "not yet motherfucker", but all I get is a blank stare back. He is fading fast, and has no interest in talking. A meager tail wag is all that’s left. I do my best to keep him awake and breathing until I finally doze off, not sure what it is I will be waking up to. Every breath sounds like it could be his last, and it’s absolutely terrifying.

It’s morning now and I’m awake again from a few hours of sleep. For the past ten years he has greeted me with a big goofy smile, face in mine, breathing hot air to wake me up. Today though, he’s across the room, staring at me still, but not smiling. His face is saying "let’s get the hell on with this." I don’t blame him. I wonder for a moment if I’m keeping him alive for him or for me, and decide that it’s finally time.

I realize on my way to the vet that I’m going only 10 mph. There are a line of cars behind me, honking and trying to pass. If they knew, they would understand my lack of haste, I hope. One truck passes by sporting a golden lab, face out the window, tongue and ears flapping in the wind. God sure has a sense of humor. I remind myself that Juice has also had those days, plenty of them. We’ve all had them, our glory days, our head sticking out the window, in bliss and euphoria. At what point are they all gone? At which point are our best days behind us, and how will we know? That dog in that truck will have his day too, his final ride. At least he was enjoying it today.

It all happened quickly. His condition deteriorated so rapidly that it was impossible to prepare for. I suppose I had more preparation for this one than others, but how does one truly prepare for loss in the first place? I’ve read and journaled more material than I’d ever like to admit on grief and recovery after loss, but wasn’t sure how to prepare for the final moments before death; what I should do or how I’d feel.

I prepared the best way I knew how, by visualizing, walking myself through the steps. We get there, we go to the back room, we inject him, and that’s that. That’s what I imagined, I’d never done it before and didn’t know how these things worked.

I pulled up into the dirt driveway of the vets office. The whole area surrounding the office is a warm place, a special place, and Juice was special to more than just me there. I sit in the car with him for a few moments, deliberating in my head whether I’m making the right decision or not. I look at him, and lean in to give him a kiss. He leans forwards and tries to kiss back, but instead coughs a bloody mess from his mouth, painting my pants and the vehicle center console a dark crimson. I won’t forget that moment for a long, long time, I imagine. I knew at that point that yes, this was the right thing to do, and what a tragically bitter reinforcement it was.

I watch him hobble out of my trailblazer for the last time, and we walk into the office, feeling very ominous. Immediately the staff does everything they can to make us comfortable. They’ve been through this several times before, but one gets the feeling that it’s something that doesn’t get any easier with time.

The doctor and I talk for a few moments. He doesn’t need to look at Juice for long before reassuring me that we were doing the right thing. Better painless and peaceful we agreed, although if I had to guess I think he would have rathered his chances duking it out with Death himself.

We walk outside, slowly. A slow trot was all he could muster. We spotted the only area of sunshine to be found, a small circle on top of a small grassy hill. A fine place to die, I thought, better than inside of a hospital with white walls and fluorescent lights, on a metal bed. I hadn’t thought much about the value of scenery and environment in this situation, but the outdoors brought a pleasant, albeit brief reprieve from the gravity of the moment.

Doc explained a bit more about what was going to happen once we all sat down with him. He would find a vein in his leg like we had several times before in the week. Instead of drawing blood or injecting antibiotics though, we would be mainlining him the good stuff. Barbiturates in lethal doses was what is deemed painless and peaceful in the veterinarian world, and it looked very much to be both of those things.

I laid side by side with him, with my head facing him for his last few breaths. His eyes had been lazy and half shut the whole day. We began to inject him, and for a brief moment he opened his eyes wide and alive, looking at me as if he were just a puppy again. A rush of euphoria maybe, a flood of good memories, I would like to imagine. The final breath was long, and there was no doubt that it was his last. His head slumped on top of my hand, where I felt the weight of that handsome face that I had grown to love over the last decade. I let him lay there for quite a while, reminding me of when he would fall asleep resting on me.

We cried and hugged and cried a bit more, as Doc continued to talk both Juice and I through the process, until long after the last breath. He added comic relief by assuring us that Pope Francis has officially blessed all dogs to go to Heaven.

Most importantly though, there were some very pretty ladies waiting on him up there, he explained. And we all know how much Juice loved his pretty ladies.