Godspeed, Rocky.
I sit here at my keyboard, my mind drifting in and out of focus, struggling to stay present long enough to find the words. I want to explain what I’m feeling, but grief doesn’t manifest in clean sentences.
Today, we made the decision to help Rocky leave this world peacefully.
His health declined with a speed and aggression that made the choice clearer, but no less unbearable. The once-majestic ninety-plus-pound dog who could clear six-foot fences without a second thought can now barely stand without pain. Watching that transformation has been devastating.
Just a few months ago, he was struggling with digestive issues, possibly cancer related. After treatment, he bounced back in a way that felt almost miraculous. He ran like a puppy again, chased his tail in the yard, roughhoused with the other dogs. For a while, it felt like we had more time.
Then, in the last seventy-two hours, the fight ended.
All the words I’ve offered others over the years, the comfort and perspective I share when someone says goodbye to their furry family member, suddenly feel hollow. I want to shout, “Yes, but Rocky was different.” I want to explain how deeply bonded we were. Grief is selfish that way. And this is grief happening while he’s still alive, lying at my feet as I write.
In a few hours, we’ll take one last forty-five-minute car ride to the vet’s office. A ride he won’t return from. I’ll come home carrying his empty harness, feeling the weight of it in my hands and questioning every part of the decision I made out of love.
I look at him now, resting on the floor, calm and free from pain only because of the medications running through his body. A dear friend’s words echo in my head: “He is alive, but he is not living.”
So many of us who open our homes and hearts to animals eventually face this moment. We wrestle with the urge to be selfish, to hold on just a little longer. And yet, knowing how this story ends, we still choose them. We choose to give them the best days of their lives, even though it means accepting what may be the hardest day of ours.
As I sit here holding back tears I know will come freely later, I want to ask just one thing of you. Hug your furry family a little tighter tonight. Take an extra moment. Do it in remembrance of Rocky.
He gave my life a renewed sense of purpose. He helped shape the direction of Kindness Ranch in ways we’ll still be talking about for years to come. His impact will outlive this moment, as difficult as it may be right now.
Godspeed, Rocky.
I’ll see you on the other side.
- John