Dante Thomas Wentingworth

I leave my car and rush for the rotting wooden stairs leading up to the sliding glass door I've entered through since I was a young child. My chest is tight with sorrow and trepidation, but it does not stave my hand from gripping and pulling at that door, pushing my way inside, and pushing back the sob that pulls at my throat.

I look down and see him immediately. He's here. He's right here. He's lying on the floor and he looks so, so tired. In all of our 17 years together, he's never looked so tired. He's never hesitated to greet me, bushy tail wagging as he runs toward my embrace. Today? Today he tries. He tries so hard, and I fight another short sob as I watch him struggle through his pain.

"Hey, Dante." I drop quickly to the ground, sitting just in front of him and reaching out to pet the silky fine crimped fur right behind his pointy ears. I try so hard to smile and be positive. I want so badly for his last moments to be as happy as his first. But I can't stop the tears. I can't stop the way I feel when he attempts to stand with his broken body, struggling just to get close enough to lay his head on my lap.

"There you go. There's your Oodie."

My mother encourages him. She knows what he means to me. He was my first and last pet, my closest sibling for years. He was my little brother. The one who comforted me when my human brother died, staying close to me as I kneeled before the toilet that night, left alone to deal with the trauma while other family members comforted each other in dirty local dive bars.

And right now, at this moment, for just this moment, he is still here beside me. He stays by me and sleeps beside me, just as he had done during those years I'd been left alone in an empty house. He kept me warm, and I returned the favor. I remember so many nights lying beside him, dreading the day he'd be gone. God, it came too soon.

17 years. Dante helped to keep me alive and sane for 17 years. Without him, I would have been far too alone to be okay, too isolated to remain loving. His pointy ears he loved to have scratched, his bushy tail that wagged so hard when my school bus arrived in the drive... He was my heat when I had no furnace in the dead of winter, and I was his. He didn't care if my body wasn't like everyone else's, if my family was absent, or if I had to feed him cereal because I had nothing else.

He only cared that he had me.

So I make sure that he knows that he still has me, even in these final, painful moments. When my tears come, he tries to act okay, he tries to get up and to move as though he would take off chasing me if I decided to get up and play. I carefully draw him closer to me again, whispering for him to lie down as I continue to run my fingers through his thick fur, struggling to be strong.

He gave me his entire life. And I gave him what I could of mine. We grew up together, playing and learning new games (like "Ready, Set, Go!", our favorite racing game), sharing the same bed (he always needed a pillow for his head), and even taking our meals together (he loved fruit). We did it all together.

And it was never enough. And to this day, I miss that love every single moment. Some think I'm childish for still crying when I talk about him all of these years later, but I'm not ashamed. He was a gift the universe sent to me, someone I was blessed and meant to have in my life. He taught me love, patience, bliss, and sorrow. He was as important in making me who I am today as was any human I've ever known.

It may not be a happy memory to all, but for me, being with my little brother at the time of his passing is an unbelievable miracle. I'll always remember this feeling of his soft fur beneath my fingers, and the hushed sounds of pain that he cannot hide as he nuzzles my hand, his cold tongue kissing my palm as he tries to comfort me, despite his undeniable anguish.

I know the veterinarian will come soon, and she will usher him quietly out of this world he and I have shared for so long, and I will be alone. No amount of condolences will ever comfort my aching heart, and it will hurt for the rest of my life. I'll never be this purely loved again.

But I'm thankful. I'm so thankful for what he has given me. One day, maybe, I'll find the courage to bring into my home another canine family member, and I'll love them deeply and selflessly, learning their personality and cherishing them for who they are.

But they can never be my first best friend.

I hold him closer, I say his name quietly and tell him how much I love him. I tell him he's been the best boy and I'm proud of him. I wish the veterinarian could put a pillow under his head when he closes his eyes for the last time because I want him to be comfortable. I wish for nothing but calmness and love in his last moments. I kiss him to remind him I'm here.

I'll be here for as long as I can. I tell him I'll never forget him. I'll take him with me everywhere... for the rest of my life.

And I do. I still do.

My Dante. Dante Thomas Wentingworth.