My nightly routine looks different now. While Jordan gets started on our toddler’s bath, I switch the light off in the kitchen after cleaning up and say “goodnight, Forest” to an empty room. The fluffy golden that turned us into a family 12 years ago is no longer occupying the cool space on the tile floor. It’s where she spent most of her final days and poetically where she took her last breath.
For selfish reasons, I was originally worried of losing our dog at home. Of witnessing suffering slowly and without a place to separate from the loss. I worried home would always be tied to one of the hardest human experiences. Forest went on her own terms where she was comfiest. It happened while everyone was asleep. Surrounded by familiar scents, the strongest sense she had left. Next to her were clothes that smelled of me and a hat that smelled of Jordan and the worn in dog bed she laid on for years. We were some of the lucky ones for it to happen the way it did.
We adopted Forest at the Humane Society of Charlotte in October 2014. She was around 2 at the time. Instead of a young pup, we were touched by an old soul. It’s what drew me in. Unlike the other dogs vying for attention, she was calm with her bottom half pressed against the kennel. She didn’t bark, didn’t whimper. While we pet her through the fence, she just stared deeply into my eyes with a knowing look that I could only describe as human. “I trust you, do you trust me?” I felt chosen that day.
Freshly moved into our apartment, there was still boxes to unpack and a new city to get to know. As the story often goes, we were “only at the shelter to look”. The next day while Jordan was at work, I beelined before they opened to be first in line to adopt her. I sent him a photo of us on our couch to announce the news.
Through the years she’s been on more couches and beds, on hikes, cross country trips, celebrated Christmas in Yosemite one year and Sequoia another. She spent time basking on decks and in kitchen floors as we shuffled around from state to state. She was what made every house a home. A steady presence of calm and safety. She really was happiest wherever we were. Her circle was small and we respected that. It made her affection that much more precious knowing how selective she was at sharing it. She always wanted to be closer. At night, her limbs would lay wrapped around me with a heavy head on my shoulder like a weighted scarf. We didn’t get to assume the position as much after she lost her sight and hearing and arthritis came creeping in. The couches and beds became unsafe obstacles. Thats when the first wave of grieving her came rushing over me.
The next came when she started showing signs of dog dementia. Sleeping through the day, awake at night. Bumping into walls and furniture. Incontinence. Things that developed gradually enough to feel like a normal progression of old age. It broke my heart slowly and quietly. A wagging tail and healthy appetite kept me hopeful. Occasionally she’d get into the trash. Deep down I loved she was still getting into mischief.
Every vet appointment the last two years came with dread. To our relief, they would send us home with reassurance and an updated health protocol. A few years ago we discovered new lumps around her body. Unconcerning fatty deposits at first eventually became concerning ones that we feared most. Lymphoma. The cancer survival rate is 1-2 months for older dogs. Once we put her on stronger meds, she was only with us two more weeks.
Loving a senior animal is a harrowing privledge. One that changes you and makes you grow up faster, too. The anticipatory grief was immense and took so much mental capacity on top of welcoming our first (human) born. Prior to Forest, we only had family dogs and never had to make the hard decision of choosing when to say an impossible goodbye. It wrecked us.
I will forever be grateful to Jordan, who became Forest’s primary caretaker during the last two years of her life. He gave her every medication, took her outside for bathroom breaks eight or nine times a day, and quietly cleaned up whenever there were accidents. He sat with her on the floor while I was putting our baby to bed each night.
She left us three days before our scheduled appointment— her last selfless act so we wouldn’t have to ever wonder if it was a moment too soon or a moment too late.
I called the local crematorium our veterinarian had recommended. The gentleman who answered the phone was immediately warm and reassuring. Adonis—I’ll never forget his name. He arrived at our front door within the hour, dressed in a dark collared polo, neatly pressed slacks, and a belt as though he were attending a funeral. I was deeply touched. He offered his condolences and gave us all the private time we needed. When we were ready, he gently placed Forest onto a stretcher, wrapped in our blankets. Together, he and Jordan carried her through the house, following a familiar path—from the kitchen, through the living room, and out the front door. They walked across the grass to his van and laid her inside facing the rear, just as she had on so many of our drives in the Subaru. He caught me off guard when he asked if there was a special song that reminded us of Forest that he can play for her on her final drive.
The comforting chords rang off Adonis’ Bluetooth to the van speakers as he pulled slowly away from the house. I was holding Lennon in one arm and waving to Forest with the other. Jordan holding us both. Tears and gratitude flowing. The automatic trunk closed and the music quietly echoed on our block until he turned the corner. I didn’t expect to have a beautifully dignified Viking send off for her— something every animal deserves but rarely gets.
With another dog and toddler zooming around, somehow the house still feels quiet. I imagine it will for a while. We do our best to honor her memory with framed photos and flowers seeds sprinkled in the yard where she loved to sniff. For me, she lives in the stories we tell and goodnight whispers in the kitchen.
Forest’s face grew grey and I grew a few along with her— a badge of honor of a golden life together.
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