Savage Words: This is a column I hated to write

I wrote my first column in the Brandon Valley Journal’s Opinion page in January of 2022. It’s been a regular, weekly column in the paper since October of 2023.

Over that time span, I’ve loved writing every single one of them. Some of them were tough topics, but I enjoyed writing them, even if it meant tackling a difficult subject. 

But this week’s column? I hated writing it. 

I’ve known this column has been coming, and I’ve worked on the words over the last several months, but I had to put a final period on it. And I hated it.  

My best friend, my 15-year-old chocolate lab Molly, passed away last week. It was an agonizing decision, but one we had to finally make.

As it goes with labs, Molly’s legs slowly had had enough, and I’ve known it for a while. That dog ran like the wind, and we played catch with one of her many balls for many years. I’d throw that thing 50 yards, she’d track it down, run back to me and put it at my feet, ready for another go of it.

About two months ago, I found one of her old balls in the bushes. I showed it to her, and rolled it down the driveway about 10 feet. She looked up at me with a look of, “Dad, I’m done playing that game.”

Even though I knew her running-after-the-ball days were over, she was still happy over the last two months, I thought. She still wagged her tail when we came home, she still ate, drank, and cuddled. But she really struggled to walk around the block, or even stand.

No one ever looked at me the way Molly did. Sometimes it was when I had a potato chip in my hand, and I’ll be the first to recognize the focus was more on the chip, and less on me. But still, she would sit with me in our basement as I worked on stories for the paper and just look at me. She’d look for hours, seemingly totally content just to be downstairs with me.

After I had surgery three years ago, Molly never left my side. Never. Every grimace, every step I took, her nails clicked on the hardwood floor right next to my feet as I slowly made my way around the house.

We adopted Molly when our daughter was five years old. Our hope was that she could see Isabella through high school graduation. Our daughter is 20 now, a junior in college. Molly did her job, and then some. I’ll always believe that she helped raise my daughter, by running around with her in the front yard, protecting her when a stranger approached, loved on her and showed silence and comfort when our daughter did homework every night.

Over the last two months, there were many times I told her that if she needed to drift away, that I’d understand. But clearly, that wasn’t Molly’s plan. She wanted to get the most out of every day. THE most, even though I could tell she was likely hurting.

I went for a walk around the block with Molly last Tuesday. We used to walk absolutely everywhere in Sioux Falls. But for the last two months, a trip around the block was all she could muster.

We barely made it on Tuesday. She labored, and I knew we were closing in on her final day. As I toiled and toiled about making the ultimate decision, Molly laid next to me downstairs. Just looked and looked, almost comforting me that it was time. 

On Wednesday, probably selfishly because I was hoping for the best, we went for another trip around the block. She made it just over halfway, fell over, laid there, and just looked at me – again – but this time it was a look of, “Dad, I can’t do it anymore.”

I carried her home the rest of the way.

Over the last six months or so, I’ve told myself that she’d let me know. Somehow, between human and canine vocabulary, she’d let me know when she was ready. Wednesday’s walk, and subsequent collapse, was it.

Once we got home, I let her catch her breath. Let her eat as best she could. She had some water, and it was time.

We bought her a pup cup from Dairy Queen and her own order of Potato Ole’s from Taco Johns. She loved Potato Ole’s, but only managed to get a couple whenever we bought them for ourselves. On Wednesday, she got them all.

We drove to our favorite spot, a park near our house. It’s a spot where we spent countless hours, just sitting, relaxing, talking to each other. I know that part sounds weird, but Molly and I were connected, and I’ll believe she understood what I was saying, and I knew what she wanted by her movements, her certain barks.

We then went to the vet, for the toughest event I’ve ever been through.

Call me soft, I don’t care. I know I’ll never know another loyalty or friendship like that again.

I’m heartbroken that her life is over. Thankfully, this week’s column is.