Saying goodbye to our family dog, Hobbes

Dealing with life and death issues is an everyday occurrence in my job as a veterinarian.  I’m regularly called on to help bring life into the world as well as asked to facilitate its end.   The latter, euthanasia, has always been hard for me.  Over the years I’ve developed an emotional toughness in order to perform the difficult task, especially when I’m called to put a family’s pet to sleep.   However, when it came time to say goodbye to our dog, Hobbes, I was struck by a profound sorrow—a sorrow that was different than any I had experienced before.

Hobbes, a Golden Retriever, came into our family’s life when my two boys, Nate and Tristan, were growing up and at an age they could help care for a puppy.  Tristan held Hobbes on his lap on the way home from the breeder.  Like all puppies, Hobbes chewed up many objects in our home he wasn’t supposed to, ate things that made him sick and demanded a lot of our attention.  But he soon grew out of most of his bad habits and settle into being a typical family dog.

He was an expert at retrieving objects especially tennis balls, but was also proficient at leaping and catching a Frisbee from the air.  He loved shagging baseballs I hit for the boys, but because of his exuberance for retrieving and he got the balls slobbery, we had to tie him up when the boys and I played.  During dinner time, he had his favorite spot under the table, a perfect place to lick up a fallen snack and the perfect place to be close to all of us at once.

Unfortunately, the years march forward.  Soon it was time to send Nate off to college and it wasn’t long before Tristan followed.  It’s hard to know for sure, but I believe Hobbes noticed the changes happening to our family.  The flurry of late afternoon (after school) activity had stopped, dinner time became quieter and he didn’t have baseballs to retrieve anymore.  As if to say, “hey you guys still have me,” every night after dinner Hobbes insisted on crawling into my wife Sheila’s lap were she could hug him and in return he would kiss her ear.

Hobbes’ health turned in a hurry.  Over the period of a week he stopped wanting to go on walks, climbing the basement stairs became increasingly difficult and he quit coming to the dinner table.   I knew from his blood work it was serious, but being an eternal optimist, I had hopes that the things I could do for him might turn his condition around. But after he lost his appetite and his tail stopped wagging, I knew I was wrong.

The weekend before we put Hobbes to sleep, Nate, Tristan and Nate’s finance Lauren made it home to see Hobbes a final time.  As we sat for dinner that night, Hobbes struggled to his feet in the living room, and for the first time since his health deteriorated, walked over and plopped himself down with us at the table.   We were all together again one last time.

Thinking about that night helped me understand why I was hurting so much.  It occurred to me that Hobbes had shared a special time in our family’s life.  He was there to see our sons experience the ups and downs of growing up, was by our side on Christmas mornings to open gifts, went on vacations with us and stood by the window watching as we drove off with Nate and then Tristan to college.   Losing Hobbes hammered home the reality I had been denying.  I realized that while our family will certainly have many more happy moments together, that extraordinary time when Sheila and I shared a house with two growing boys had passed.

I believe dogs are in this world with us for a reason.  The different ways they contribute to humanity are numerous, from seeing eye to search and rescue to name a few.  However not to be overlooked is the common family dog.  They comfort us when we’re feeling low, greet us with joy no matter the situation, make great playmates and even give us a reason to exercise, but maybe most of all they share time and experiences with us.

Our family was lucky to have such a dog.  He was a lanky Golden Retriever, with a tail that never stopped wagging.  We’ll miss you Hobbes.