I first met Michael in his breeder’s home. He was seemingly popular around his kin, and always played with other siblings. He was mostly the center of a golden pile of hair; either tussling or sniffing others. His playful lifestyle reflected on his physical appearance. His hair was always fluffed, eyes wondering to look for new fun, and tongue out panting after each excursion. After saying his final goodbyes, I took him to my home. The transition didn’t really affect his personality, and he seemed to enjoy to entertaining new faces.


He frequently begged to play. He spent most of his youth outside, exploring his playful realm. When he was most energetic, he would run laps around my household. I would bring him to the park mostly every weekend, here he would chase birds, fetch sticks, and do everything his mind wanted to do. His daily activities always tired him, making him curl up below my bed before I was even yawning. He was a very good eater, he even notified me on when his meal should be served. Michael always seemed to be brave; he would chase the mailman, bark when he saw something curious, and would chase most of his prey; even though he never succeeded. Yet there was only one thing that would always frighten Michael, and that was lightning. This paranoia would constantly bother him. He would hide under my desk, but that never fix the problem. After the overcast dispersed, he would come out from under my desk as if he went through World War III. Overall, we understood each other, similar to soul mates.


One of my most memorable experiences was when he taught himself how to swim. Michael was around the age of two, and enjoyed land as it was. He never really saw a fair-sized body of water. It was in a four foot deep stream, and his eyes sharpened at the look of his reflection. While staring, he just jumped in. Ever since that moment, he would never be afraid of swimming or taking baths.


As Michael matured, I noticed a decline in his physical activity. I assumed that he was just getting older. He could not accommodate his excessive needs to run wild. He would spend most of his days lying down sleeping on the floor. When he would walk, seldom as it was, he limped. This concerned me, but I only thought it was from over-exercising. When it became a constant habit, I took him to the veterinarian.


As we walked in the door, we were greeted by several other pets; oddly enough, Michael did not interact with them. He mainly just sat right next to me. Once I signed him in, the doctor took his weight. While standing on the pedestal to measure his weight, Michael lifted his injured leg. I knew this was no good sign. After recording basic information, we helped carry all 67.8 pounds of Michael on to the cold metal table. The room was painted white, with small pictures of pets with a decorative background. It took five minutes for the veterinarian to arrive, and three more for her to become sterile. After examining Michael, the doctor told me that he had a tumor, and was quietly suffering everyday. After a long discussion, we both decided on removing the tumor through surgery. I was quite optimistic about this operation, hoping that Michael would come back the following day. I exited the hospital at around a quarter to 4, leash in hand, feeling confident on Michael’s operation.


I woke up earlier than usual the following day. While performing my morning routine, I was thinking of how we would spend his post-operation day. While gathering my keys I checked my recent emails. Most were about sale advertisements, but one stood out the most. It was subjected “IMPORTANT” and was sent at 11:37 p.m. The message was from my veterinarian, and I implored for good news. Unfortunately, I received the exact opposite of what I expected. The veterinarian said that the tumor was growing extensively. If the surgery even was a success, Michael would be a cripple for the rest of his life. I didn’t want to see him endure the suffering, but I didn’t want to lose him. Having to choose whether he lives and suffers, or dies and be free was very painful. It felt like actually losing a beloved family member. Losing my good friend or seeing him as a cripple made me feel hopeless. His life was meant to be free, and I didn’t want to deprive him of that. In the end, I chose what was best for him.

We spent our last day together the way he would exactly want it. We watched movies, gently played fetch, and admired the park we use to always play in. I gave him whatever he wanted and tended to his every need. I showed him pictures of us and reminisced, his final hour had come. I carried him to the back seat of my car, and strapped him in. While driving I remembered the first time I drove him home, and every time in between to the park. When I arrived, I broke down, and just started crying. I never wanted to come to this moment, but that was just the way of life. I carried him all the way to the medical table, and said my final goodbye. I took of his collar, fresh with his natural scent, and coiled it in my hand. As I walked away, I didn’t actually feel his presence disperse. In my heart, he was still alive with me, anxious on going to the park.



I first met Michael in his breeder’s home. He was seemingly popular around his kin, and always played with other siblings. He was mostly the center of a golden pile of hair; either tussling or sniffing others. His playful lifestyle reflected on his physical appearance. His hair was always fluffed, eyes wondering to look for new fun, and tongue out panting after each excursion. After saying his final goodbyes, I took him to my home. The transition didn’t really affect his personality, and he seemed to enjoy to entertaining new faces.

He frequently begged to play. He spent most of his youth outside, exploring his playful realm. When he was most energetic, he would run laps around my household. I would bring him to the park mostly every weekend, here he would chase birds, fetch sticks, and do everything his mind wanted to do. His daily activities always tired him, making him curl up below my bed before I was even yawning. He was a very good eater, he even notified me on when his meal should be served. Michael always seemed to be brave; he would chase the mailman, bark when he saw something curious, and would chase most of his prey; even though he never succeeded. Yet there was only one thing that would always frighten Michael, and that was lightning. This paranoia would constantly bother him. He would hide under my desk, but that never fix the problem. After the overcast dispersed, he would come out from under my desk as if he went through World War III. Overall, we understood each other, similar to soul mates.


One of my most memorable experiences was when he taught himself how to swim. Michael was around the age of two, and enjoyed land as it was. He never really saw a fair-sized body of water. It was in a four foot deep stream, and his eyes sharpened at the look of his reflection. While staring, he just jumped in. Ever since that moment, he would never be afraid of swimming or taking baths.

As Michael matured, I noticed a decline in his physical activity. I assumed that he was just getting older. He could not accommodate his excessive needs to run wild. He would spend most of his days lying down sleeping on the floor. When he would walk, seldom as it was, he limped. This concerned me, but I only thought it was from over-exercising. When it became a constant habit, I took him to the veterinarian.

As we walked in the door, we were greeted by several other pets; oddly enough, Michael did not interact with them. He mainly just sat right next to me. Once I signed him in, the doctor took his weight. While standing on the pedestal to measure his weight, Michael lifted his injured leg. I knew this was no good sign. After recording basic information, we helped carry all 67.8 pounds of Michael on to the cold metal table. The room was painted white, with small pictures of pets with a decorative background. It took five minutes for the veterinarian to arrive, and three more for her to become sterile. After examining Michael, the doctor told me that he had a tumor, and was quietly suffering everyday. After a long discussion, we both decided on removing the tumor through surgery. I was quite optimistic about this operation, hoping that Michael would come back the following day. I exited the hospital at around a quarter to 4, leash in hand, feeling confident on Michael’s operation.

I woke up earlier than usual the following day. While performing my morning routine, I was thinking of how we would spend his post-operation day. While gathering my keys I checked my recent emails. Most were about sale advertisements, but one stood out the most. It was subjected “IMPORTANT” and was sent at 11:37 p.m. The message was from my veterinarian, and I implored for good news. Unfortunately, I received the exact opposite of what I expected. The veterinarian said that the tumor was growing extensively. If the surgery even was a success, Michael would be a cripple for the rest of his life. I didn’t want to see him endure the suffering, but I didn’t want to lose him. Having to choose whether he lives and suffers, or dies and be free was very painful. It felt like actually losing a beloved family member. Losing my good friend or seeing him as a cripple made me feel hopeless. His life was meant to be free, and I didn’t want to deprive him of that. In the end, I chose what was best for him.

We spent our last day together the way he would exactly want it. We watched movies, gently played fetch, and admired the park we use to always play in. I gave him whatever he wanted and tended to his every need. I showed him pictures of us and reminisced, his final hour had come. I carried him to the back seat of my car, and strapped him in. While driving I remembered the first time I drove him home, and every time in between to the park. When I arrived, I broke down, and just started crying. I never wanted to come to this moment, but that was just the way of life. I carried him all the way to the medical table, and said my final goodbye. I took of his collar, fresh with his natural scent, and coiled it in my hand. As I walked away, I didn’t actually feel his presence disperse. In my heart, he was still alive with me, anxious on going to the park.