There is a GSD-shaped hole in my heart just now.

Last night I had to say goodbye, unexpectedly, to Gabriel my Farm Dog.

While talking with the vet about possible scenarios and options, sitting on the floor in the exam room with Gabe’s face cradled in my hands, reassuring him, he suddenly passed out. The vet and vet tech immediately whisked him to a space with proper equipment. And then came back to say he’d gone.

Just like that, gone. Nearly nine wonderful years, and I wasn’t ready to let him go.

He lived right up to the last moment. Which seems an odd expression … “he lived right up to the last moment” … but he did just that. Yesterday was a normal day for Farm Dog, save for the last 3 hours. The vet assured us Gabe died peacefully, without pain. Whether from a ruptured spleen or ruptured tumor is not so much important as knowing he didn’t suffer. There is consolation in that.

Gabe wasn’t just another dog. He was Farm Dog, half of the infamous Hairy Beasts duo. He was a four-legged member of the family. And he had wonderful adventures. Exploring the field, the creek, the flower beds, the closets left open. And he took his job as Farm Dog seriously—guarding his people and land—hunting bumbles, rabbits, and wayward skunks.

I will remember the way he would sit directly in front of me, cock his head to one side, and stare me down until I caved and gave him another cookie. That mournful {sigh} coupled with the pitiful arched eyebrow “I know there is bacon on the table” look. How he’d manage to turn extra soft and snuggly of an early morning—and somehow convince me it’d be OK to sleep through the alarm just today, and go swim tomorrow. 

He had a good life. He had a great life. He lived happy every moment; he knew he was loved. And he loved back, hard, with every ounce of his sniffy sniffy nosey dog self.

Goodbye, sweet boy.