When My Dog Dies

Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring — it was peace.

— Milan Kundera

His name is Domino.

He’s sweet, a bit chunky (but still fast as fuck), has his own humping pillow, and likes to eat his poop. He’s the best dog I’ve ever had.

This is not to disparage all the other dogs I’ve owned, because they were the best dogs I’ve ever had, too. They were all equally good boys and girls. But Domino holds a special place among them.

He’s earned titles like Chunkiness Funkiness, Mr. Cucumber Pillow Humper, DD, Bubba, Dominator, and Buddy, to name a few. His favorite foods include pepperoni, Pringles Sour Cream & Onion chips, and, as you might have guessed by one of his titles, cucumbers. When cooking, I have to pay a Domino tax on most items, although he doesn’t like broccoli.

Like many dogs, Domino has this quirk where he gets his lip stuck on his teeth, resulting in one of the goofiest grins you’ll ever see. Usually, though, by the time I get my camera ready, his lip has gone back to its natural position. My phone is full of photos taken five seconds too late.

In winter, he wraps himself up in the blankets next to me, or scratches to get under the covers and sleep by my legs. In summer, he stays at the foot of the bed under the air-conditioning vent. I look forward to cooler temperatures since it’s snuggling season.

He waits patiently for his food, even when I’m late getting it; he will stare intently and follow me from room to room as a reminder, though. It works, as he’s never missed a meal since we got him.

When I leave for work, Domino scratches on my daughter’s door, wanting to be let in so he can spend time with her. I wish I could bottle his excitement when my oldest daughter comes home.

He makes sure each person he meets gets an equal amount of love, although it takes a lot longer with men. There’s a lesson there somewhere.

Domino is my confidant, walking buddy, sit-on-my-lap outside and look-at-the-birds partner, and best friend. What a gift he is.

Everyone thinks they have the best dog … and none of them are wrong.

— W.R. Purche

In 2019, Domino got married to Molly (the poodle next door), whom we visited regularly and who would stay with us when her human went on vacation. My daughters and my neighbor’s granddaughter held a ceremony in the backyard with tiaras, balloons, and the best pet sweaters we had on hand. Unfortunately, both Molly and her human moved, and their marriage was short-lived (although they’re technically still legally married since there was no official divorce).

We adopted him from a rescue in 2017; I was four years removed from a painful divorce, a raging alcoholic whenever I didn’t have my kids, and incredibly lonely. My daughters were 10 and 8, and they were adjusting as you’d expect any child of divorce to. He instantly made our home feel lighter and provided much-needed emotional support for us all. Our lives improved when the spunky four-year-old rat terrier mix arrived.

Domino has been there since — through my chronic, deep depression and a visit to the psych ward, through my daughters growing from childhood to adulthood and all the things that entails, through job changes, house moves, and everything else that life brings. He’s been right by our side, experiencing the best and worst of us, his tail wagging the whole time. There’s a lesson there somewhere, too.

Sometimes, the word love doesn’t adequately describe the depth of feeling.

When you’re a parent, regardless of the human or animal kind (although we are animals too), you notice subtle changes. Like me, he’s turning a bit more grey each day. His eyes are getting a little cloudier as the months pass. He moves a little slower. His “jumper” doesn’t work as well — also like me. We are aging gracefully, though.

Most of us get a dog knowing it will pass before us; their lives are mere blips compared to ours. But what I didn’t know when I got him was that his death would likely coincide with an empty nest.

As her sister did, I imagine my youngest daughter will move out in the next couple of years, and the house will be empty. As much as I want my daughters to stay, they have their lives to live, and I won’t stop them. I might nag a little, but I’ll support them whatever they decide. If Domino is still around then, he will be 15. That’s a long time in dog years.

His death will likely happen around the time my youngest daughter moves out. I’m not sure how I’ll deal with all of that.

Some losses linger more than others. Domino’s death will be one of them.

“Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.”

— Agnes Sligh Turnbull