No one tells you how much it is going to hurt. I mean, why would they? No one wants to rehash the burden of losing a dog. Most people just nod their head while looking at the floor and say, “it’s tough. I get it”.

Well I didn’t. Until I had to on March 20, 2019.

I had such grand plans for us all. After leaving LA, we would take grand adventures through the 2,000+ miles of open road back to Chicago, taking pictures along the way. Until, by the second day, both Ollie and I had enough and just wanted to GET THERE. Instagram be damned. That lovely passenger spent 4+ hours sunning himself in the backseat of the Acura, all the while knowing we were on some grand adventure to somewhere, and to wake him when we got there.

By the time we arrived in the suburbs of Chicago, he knew we were home.

He always loved “the Country”, as I called it. When I first got him, it was me and him in a 350-square foot studio I called my Uptown home. So the suburbs were his “country”. How he loved to run around that backyard. Chase rodents. Kill rabbits. You know, usual psycho-dog stuff. He had a complex like Napoleon, a nose that could find food underground and the worse breath known to existence. He was also my first dog and the love of my life (before Music Man even entered the stratosphere).

I was super excited for all the adventures we would have together. We just needed to get rid of the snow, which both he and I loathed. He was 12, but he was still a raging lunatic and hyper active pup who I never thought would slow down. Until, of course, he did.

Three days into our Chicago relocation adventure, he woke us up with a seizure. And in usual fashion, he was dramatic for a couple minutes, followed by his normal, spastic self. Besides the abnormality of the most frightening thing I saw from him at the time (a dog actually having a seizure), he seemed fine. Mellow, even. That should’ve been the first red flag.

Weeks of blood test and glucose readings and liver enzymes and yadda, yadda, yadda – an ultrasound finally revealed what I had been dreading. Inoperable cancer in four organs. Prognosis was bleak. Weeks. Maybe months. Even typing this brings tears to my eyes. The stomach drop. The helplessness.

We fed him a McDonald’s Sausage McMuffin that day. He chomped at the wrapper like nothing was ever wrong, even though I have a feeling he knew. They always seem to know.

His decline was gradual but swift, and I knew I was going to have to make THAT decision. To the outside observer, he may have just appeared to be an old dog, barely walking up and down the sidewalk. But to anyone who knew Mr. Ollie McGee, they would know something was wrong.

He had a liking to humping people upon meeting, and lock-jawing if he ever found scraps of food (or other inanimate objects) along his favored walking trails. He liked to “talk” to Music Man, growl if anyone touched his paws, and bathed in the sunlight daily. He barked at you if he wanted attention or food and ate way too much grass. He hated rain or anything associated with water (see baths, Pacific Ocean, pools). He was a happy pooch, also a pain in the ass with occasional disgruntledness that came with old age. He could be an asshole, and then curl up with you on the couch with kisses, as long as you weren’t sitting in his spot.

He may have had a couple more good days in him, but I wasn’t willing to see him suffer any longer. Even if it meant my eyes would remain puff balls all weeks (/months) and my heart broken in two. We made a deal way back when (even shook paws on it) that the minute it was no longer fun, and he stopped being his assholery but lovable self, I was to let him go.

I said that if he refused food or water (his favorite past times) that would be the telling sign. But I also said that he could have no motor functions left and still bite my hand off for a treat. So that was never going to be THE SIGN. He still wagged his tail, for goodness sake. But he also started having labored breathing, his belly overly extended where he looked like a hippo, dragging his hind legs that had lost so much muscle in such a short time, and cried out in pain when you tried to pick him up. No amount of pain meds could erase that piercing cry that broke my heart every time. And I’m pretty sure he wagged his tail just for me, to reassure his mama “everything’s fine” when everything certainly was not.

The night before, we celebrated his life with Wildfire. Ever the gentleman, when offered a filet mignon, he bit all of our hands off.

It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do (which I think, in retrospect, makes me very lucky). The memories come flooding back, and the eyes fill. All I will say is the waiting was agonizing, but hearing his labored breathing was more heartbreaking than the decision. It was so so quick and painless my brain barely had time to register it all. But I will never regret that decision as long as I live.

I was hoping he would make the decision for me, but where’s the growth in that?

There is so much in this life that is fleeting, and I’m grateful of the time we had together. 12 years is a long time but especially in those formative years from 26-38. So many breakdowns, breakups and breakthroughs he saw. So many nights crying tears of sorrow and tears of joy. But he was always by my side. And even sometimes when I didn’t even have food. He was MY first dog, my first foray into responsibility and he taught me so much about patience (as in he would sit for 30 minutes staring at my food until I would cave and give him some), persistence (would get that last kernel of whatever under the tv cabinet if it was the last thing he did) and loving something unconditionally, no matter how many times he pissed you off by humping the neighbor, barking at the wind at 2am, or eating the entire 2lb box of Pixies.

I take solace in knowing that the last thing he saw were the faces that loved him, and that I actually had time to give him a proper goodbye.

And even now as I write this, a month later, I’m still crying. Still heartbroken. I never realized how much I love being around animals. How much it sucked losing him. How much being a “dog owner” defines me. I’m also finding that he was my therapy – he kept me out of my head by making sure he knew that he needed me to walk him, feed him, pay attention to him, and love him. Without his daily walks and annoyances, I am finding my overthinking brain rearing its ugly head. And when I finally feel like I’m starting to be ok, I’ll randomly find an Ollie hair on my sweater and lose my shit.

I know it was the right thing to do, but damn does it still hurt like hell.

Rest in peace, my Ollie cat. My world was better to have known you. 🐶