It had just started to snow when the phone rang.
“Hey, so quick update. We might get two dogs instead of one,” my dad says on the other end. “The owners don’t like this one family, so they may offer us the other one. Start thinking of names.”
Two dogs? I didn’t think we could pull it off. Granted I was only 11 at the time, I had only been a one-dog kid. Our last pet, a dachshund named Bucky, had been around since before I was born and passed when I was in the third grade. We had gone three years without a dog, and now we had the potential of having two.
A couple of days later, two tiny miniature shorthaired dachshunds entered our lives. We came up with names a week later: Newman and Kramer (we are avid fans of Seinfeld).
For the next almost 14 years, we watched these dogs grow, develop personalities, and interact with our family. And now one of them is gone.
It’s still hard to write those words, or to even comprehend what has occurred. On Oct. 3, just two weeks shy of his 14th birthday, Newman went to join his sister, Roxie (our aunt’s dog), in doggie heaven.
He was born to the world baby boy dachshund, but over the next 13 years and 50 weeks, he became so much more than that. Brother, best friend, loyal confidant, nap companion, exercise buddy.
He was my best friend and now my best friend is gone.
Granted he wasn’t in perfect health, and dachshunds typically live to be about 15 but this was still a shock to us.
When Bucky had passed in the third grade, I didn’t really comprehend what had happened. I had a connection to the dog, yes, but I was only around for about nine years of his life (remembering maybe five or six of them).
Newman, who epitomized the definition of “man’s best friend,” had been mine since he was eight weeks old.
He was always there with a kick to his step and a wag to his tail whenever I would come home, even if I was gone for 10 minutes. He always sought out hugs and kisses. He would make you nap, even if you weren’t tired, simply by sitting down next to you and activating what I referred to as “space heater mode.” He never begged … okay, he begged, but he didn’t make it obvious. He was there for me through good times and bad times: as I graduated high school and college, as I failed my first-ever class, being heartbroken in high school, and even landing my first “big boy” job.
Though he was a pet, he was so much more. Of my 25 years on this earth, he played a role in close to 14 of them.
I don’t know how long he was sick, or how sick he was, but he was a fighter and played it off as though it was nothing. That’s who he was. Through diagnosis after diagnosis, he persevered … even when the doctor didn’t think it could work.
I took him in on Oct. 2 to check on a gum that wouldn’t stop bleeding. It wasn’t a tremendous amount of blood, but it didn’t seem to be clotting.
Twenty-four hours later, following an overnight hospitalization with medications that required such actions, we got the call: “There’s no change. In fact, he’s actually doing worse.”
It was then we decided to ease his suffering and put him to sleep. My mom, dad, and I piled in my car and drove the 10 minutes to the animal hospital. It’s the longest 10-minute drive of my life.
We were seated in a room and waited for Newman to arrive, so we could say our goodbyes. One of the nurses brought him in, and I didn’t even recognize him. Sure, here was the same dog with the perfect puppy dog eyes, still wagging his tail as he saw us, but he was frail. He was pale. It was time.
We each said our goodbyes to this lovable dog and, when it came to be my turn, I just didn’t want to let him go. Maybe, I thought, just maybe hugging him will make it all better. He had made me feel better countless numbers of times through hugs. Maybe now it was my turn to return that favor.
I sobbed. Okay, sobbed is putting it easily, tears fell from my face as though a faucet had been turned on. I’m still getting residual tears as I type this. But I knew it was his time to go, and I had to accept that.
I wasn’t in the room when it happened. I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t see my best friend slip away. I hope he doesn’t hate me for that.
It’s never an easy thing to do, but I know I have to let go. I know I’ll get through it eventually, but there will forever be a place in my heart for my Newman. My best friend.
So goodbye, my best friend. And thank you for everything over the past 13 years. I will see you again one day.
