The Hardest Goodbye

When my brother rescued Libby as a puppy and brought her home, my dad tried to return her to her previous owners four times. After that, he gave up and my brother trained her up to be the perfect dog. That’s how she became our nanny dog. She followed my sister and I everywhere, matched our every step and never took her eyes off of us. We ventured everywhere outside as kids, and wherever we went, Libby dutifully followed. When my mom called her back home, she would look between my sister and I and my mom, completely torn. She knew she had to listen to mom, but how could she leave the kids out by themselves?

Libby was a german shepherd mixed, with what we didn’t know, we only knew that she was the best dog ever. We only knew she would follow us to the end of the earth and then lead us home if we got lost. She became my dad’s jogging buddy, no leash and no commands, she just followed. Every step, every turn, she was there, glued to him. She loved my dad, but only selectively. When he “attacked” my sister and I with tickles or played fighting, Libby grabbed onto his arm with her teeth and stood over us.

Protector, follower, leader. We called her Nana because she took such good care of us, she would die before anybody got hurt. So when she got arthritis in her back hip at age seven, the heartbreak in our family was palpable and pungent. We tried everything. Pills, which she was far too smart to be tricked into eating. Surgery, which meant I no longer was allowed to nap with her and lay on her leg as a pillow. So instead I laid with my head on my arm and cried with her on the ground.

Her last day, we went to the park and gave her more treats than she knew what to do with. I couldn’t stop crying, and had never felt this kind of grief, this burdening and heavy weight of loss that was hovering over me. She was so happy and excited to be at the park and chasing her ball, because we didn’t allow her to do that anymore. My mom tried to take last pictures, but I couldn’t catch a breath of air to smile or look anywhere but at my lifelong best friend. How was it that a creature so pure and loving and loyal had to be in so much pain? Why was it fair for her to have to go to sleep when she didn’t have a bad bone in her body? When she had given everything to us? She gave us her heart, you could see it when she looked at you with tangible love in her eyes. She gave us her soul, you could feel it when she leaned her head against your chest and you felt whole. She gave us her body, following us to hell and back, dragging her bad leg behind her and not caring if it fell off, as long as she was with you.

My mom and dad loaded her in the car and drove to the vet from the park, my grandma stayed with my sister and I to take us home. I watched her in the back of the car, looking back at us as they pulled from the parking lot, and I watched as a part of me followed her. Just as she had done for us, I was able to follow her to the end as well, and that piece of my soul still rests with her. I can’t remember the rest of the day, or the week. It was empty and dark and alone, there was a weight that kept me from moving, four hours and days. I couldn’t see anything through the constant well of tears, I couldn't feel anything beyond the broken pieces of my heart.

There is no harder goodbye, in my opinion, than this. There is no way to tell them thank you that they will understand, no way to tell them what is about to happen. The sorrow that follows you from that day will always rest in you, dormant but there. Forever there within you. But that can be replaced and replenished with new joy, new love.

My dad returned Libby four times before she became a part of our family, and I've never seen my dad hurt so deeply than the day he said goodbye to her. So, despite what would be obvious rejection, my sister and mom and I decided to give him new joy. New love.