I Can Still Feel His Paw in My Hand

I can still feel his paw in my hand.

I can still feel the warmth of his body when I lay my head on his chest.

I can still feel the softness of his thick white coat on my face when I would bury it in his neck and whisper, “I love you, buddy.”

I can hear his breathing slow.

I can feel the warmth fade from his body.

I can feel his body become rigid.

I can feel him slipping away from me.

Two years have passed since I lost my dog, Riley. The pain of that loss still feels as strong as it did on that afternoon of February 22, 2024.

The image of that small, dimly lit room and of those final moments I had with him before he faded away from me still brings me to my knees.

If I let my mind linger on that image for a second too long, I am immediately transported to that very moment and overcome by an immense feeling of loss. I feel like I’m again sitting on the hard gray veterinary floor, legs crossed, tears running down my face, watching him die all over again.

I remember nearly a year prior, when I noticed a small, hard bump on his right cheek while walking him and Remy along Croftville Rd. I cupped my hand around the bump and felt my heart tighten. I immediately knew what it was. My beautiful boy had cancer. It would soon take him from me.

I scheduled an appointment at a veterinary clinic in Duluth to get CT scans to confirm my worst fear. I spent an hour and over a thousand dollars just to have a vet tell me it is indeed cancer, and he has six months to live. The bone cancer would continue to spread, metastasize, and aggressively degrade its way through his jaw, his cheek, and the right side of his face.

It would strip him of his ability to eat, steal his joy, and drain his energy. It would be very painful, the vet told me. The silver lining, she said, is that the cancer hadn’t yet spread to his lungs, which meant he had quite a few more months to enjoy life.

It’s uncomfortable knowing when something you love is going to die.

I suppose for some, it’s helpful to have a general timeline, to prepare, to start grieving, to cherish each day because as the sun sets, you know it’s one less day that your heart will remain whole.

As time passed, I flipped the pages of the calendar with hesitancy, trepidation, and worry.

Ry and I cruised through life as usual for the rest of April, May, and into the busy summer months. Typically, each year, I yearn for fall. It’s my favorite time of year. I love that in-between moment—when warm summer evenings give way to slightly crisp fall mornings. I love watching the vibrancy of the dense forest floor change quietly, the greens, oranges, yellows, thinning out as fall takes hold.

This fall, however, I did not yearn.

I knew that fall brought the six-month mark for the end of Ry’s life and that the month of September was quickly nearing.

September arrived, and each day was filled with fear.

Will it be today? Will it be when I’m home or at work? Will the cancer have spread to his lungs, and I’ll walk in the door and see that he died alone on the couch waiting for me to get home? I wanted to take him everywhere with me. I wanted to be there when it happened. I refused to let cancer take that from me, too.

September ended, and the slightly colder fall air of October arrived. He was still with me.

November and December faded into January, and I watched in awe as the tumor obtrusively overtook the entire right side of his face. But he was still with me.

Riley was a champ, he could have cared less about the growing hard lump on his face. He was completely unfazed by the entire cancer experience and never once showed any sign of pain.

And then February arrived.

I think of those painful few February days when I watched the cancer tear through his jaw and spent mornings wiping thick chunks of blood off the floor. I remember the morning I woke up and collapsed to the floor in tears when I saw the tumor had overtaken his right eye overnight. I remember picking up my phone, my hand trembling, tears streaming down my face, while calling the veterinarian’s office to schedule to put him down that afternoon.

I told myself I would let him live as long as he wasn’t in pain or the tumor hadn’t impeded his ability to eat, see, or live his life as he would each day. Up until then, it hadn’t. I gave him his pain meds each day as a precautionary measure, but he was still eating as normal, running, playing, and being his usual goofy self. He never once showed any sign that I wasn’t making the right decision.

But today was different. Today it was time to say goodbye.

I remember taking him to his favorite place along the Lake Superior shore, so he could play in the water one more time. We walked along the shore, I threw rocks into the lake for him to chase, and he acted like his usual self, a happy 12-year-old puppy. I remember stopping by Dairy Queen on our way to the vet’s office to get him a cheeseburger, fries, and a large Oreo Blizzard.

While the image of those final moments with him, watching him take his final breath, is extremely painful to recount, the other image that I try just as hard not to think about is of standing up and walking out of the room.

I walked into that room with my best friend. And I walked out without him.

It was the last time I would see him in the form that I had known and loved for 12 years. The next time I would see him would be when the vet handed me a small wooden box.

It took me about one year before I let myself use Ry’s leash on another dog. I left it hanging by the door next to the other dog leashes, maybe in some way hoping that he would come back to me. I didn’t want to tuck his things away out of sight. I wanted daily reminders of him, as painful as it was in those early days and months.

It took me nearly two years before I let Remy or Cooper use his dog bowl. The bowl sat on a shelf, a few below his ashes and collar since the day he passed away.

I felt they were sacred in some way after his passing. That they shouldn’t be touched, and his things had to sit on the shelf, untouched, preserved, as a way to honor him and show him I loved him.

Those feelings have faded with each day. Remy and Cooper now use his leash, his bowl, and each time I grab it or look at it, I think of my boy, Ry. Like he’s right there with the three of us, taking a walk or having breakfast. It brings me comfort in some way to know that he’s here with us and that he’s in my thoughts every day.

For 12 years, he was by my side for all of my adventures and life experiences. I still feel his absence every day.

If only I could see him again.

But until then, I’ll keep closing my eyes and picturing my happy boy running towards me on the trail, wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his neck, and saying, “I love you, buddy.”