Saying Goodbye

This past weekend I said goodbye to my best friend. Dakota was a beautiful Akita, whom I brought home when he was just six weeks old. He was a birthday present from an ex boyfriend 11 years ago. At the time I was 18, I had just moved into my first apartment out of the dorms and I was living alone. My parents had recently divorced and, with so many changes, I felt lost most of the time.

Dakota showed up and I quickly found out I had adopted the worst puppy in history. He chewed my boots, my belts, my porch railing. He instinctively knew when company was coming over and would drag all my dirty underwear out of the hamper and lay it gently on the couch. Yelling at him only seemed to cause him more joy, much to my complete frustration. He was an ace at obedience school or in front of an audience, but at home when it was the two of us he conveniently forgot everything he knew.

He went everywhere with me that first year: to the pool, to class, to frat parties. He fit perfectly in the floorboard of my Honda civic and would curl up in front of the a/c vent for a nap on long drives. Dakota loved going for rides his whole life. Looking back, I’m sure it had little to do with the destination and everything to do with his pure joy at being included in my plans.

Fast forward eleven years later and Kota’s body started to betray him. Dakota was one of the most stubborn and proud animals I have ever known (I don’t know why they say animals are like their owners). His physical failures began to cause him embarrassment and distress. And while I’m absolutely sure he would never have left me, no matter how great the pain or the humiliation, I couldn't bear to watch him go through that.

I felt comfortable with my decision, but it didn’t make the day any easier. Taking him for his last walk, I passed a cherry blossom tree shedding its petals over the sidewalk. The pinkish white petals lay on the ground like empty cartoon dialogue bubbles. My thoughts burst into the petals: Am I doing the right thing; is this what he would want; does he know what's going to happen? Sneaking him a chocolate cookie once we got home brought tears to my eyes. On the way to the vet I found I had to disconnect my thoughts to keep from crying. As Kevin drove I repeated what I saw over and over again in my head to avoid my feelings. Stoplight. Orange sign. Lady with Stroller.

Afterwards, I found the hardest part wasn't the actual act of saying goodbye, but all the little things I miss without him around. I get choked up each time I unlock the door to find nothing but a pile of shoes in the entryway to greet me. I see a pine cone Dakota played with just a few days ago and tears fill my eyes. As I left the house this morning to go to the office I pulled up the blinds in the living room out of habit, before realizing he wouldn't be keeping watch over the sidewalk today.

Dakota and I grew up together. He gave me a sense of purpose and a reason to get out of bed every morning, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. He comforted me through sadness and loneliness. I did my best to comfort him through thunder and pesky squirrels. I'll never know exactly what he was thinking at the end. Was he ready? Was he at peace with the decision? The one thing I can say without doubt is that he loved me completely and unconditionally, and that thought keeps me choked up even days later. Devotion and loyalty stood as the only tenants of his too short life. Anyone who has ever been the chosen recipient of a dog's affections can understand the extent to which he touched my life. So to my little Kota Bear, wherever you are, know that your life changed mine, and I will be forever grateful.