The Many Car Rides of a Dog's Life

The last two things I said to my black lab of nine years was I am sorry and Thank You.  I probably said both of those things a hundred times to him during that last car ride before he took his final breath.

I remember three specific things about Buddy's life:

His first ride in my car, as a puppy, after we met at the pound.

His final ride in my car, nine years later.

And all the years in between.

I remember everything about that dog. 

Wanna experience joy from a dog's perspective?  Just ask, "Wanna go for a ride?"
Wanna see a dog smile?  Just roll the car windows down when driving.

Wanna see a dog melt your heart?  Just close the car door without letting him in.

Buddy was full of life.  He loved walks. Chasing tennis balls.  Playing hide and seek.  Laying on my bed.  Following me everywhere.

And he loved riding in my car.

He was full of wonder.  Everything was an adventure.  We talk about stopping and smelling the roses.  Well, Buddy did just that.  In fact, he stopped and smelled everything.

He was a miracle dog.  He was in my life during the perfect time. 

It was when I lost a great friend did I witness how extraordinary my dog was.

Wanna see a dog mourn? 
Wanna see how much your dog loves you?

Just be sad.
You don't even have to cry.

He will know.  He will sense it.

And then he will be sad right along with you.  And then he will try to comfort you.

I don't know how I would have survived those sad and lonely periods in my life without Buddy.

A year after losing a great friend and my dog serving and comforting me, the tables were turned.  Buddy was diagnosed with cancer. 

It was now my turn to serve and comfort him. 



He hadn't eaten in days so I knew a bone or scraps would not interest him.

His lack of strength and energy was witnessed by the fact, he wouldn't raise his head.  He just laid there; occasionally, whimpered and watched me. 

Wanna see a man feel helpless?  Just watch him as he watches his dog suffer.


When a dog approaches the end of his life, it's much different than losing a family member or a friend.  In a way, it's a lot more difficult.

And the reason I say this is because the end of a dog's life usually is determined by a ride in the car. 

Humans either die in their sleep, in an accident or in an expected manner. 

With dogs, we are their executioner.  We are their mercy killers.

When the day arrived to end Buddy's suffering, I wanted to grant him one last wish.

If there was anything that might excite him, give him one last smile and let him know I was both sorry and grateful for him, I knew what would work:

A car ride.

Buddy, who had barely moved from his dog bed over the last few days, was watching me carefully.  I grabbed my car keys, shook them so they made that jingling noise, his ears perked up and then I heard the most beautiful sound in the world:

It was two loud thuds.

It was his tail hitting the floor.


BUDDY WAS TRYING TO WAG HIS TAIL FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS!

And then it happened:

Wanna go for a ride?

Buddy sprang to his feet.  I opened the car door and he hopped in. 

And then he smiled.


We drove around for about an hour with the car window down and his head proudly blowing against the wind.  I wanted him to explore this world one last time.

And he did.

The car ride ended at the vet's office. 

Buddy knew why we were there.  Tears were streaming down my face.  I was mere minutes away from saying goodbye to my best friend.

When the vet led us to the back room where good dogs go to die, Buddy led the way.

When we reached the back room, I lifted him up and placed him gently onto the table.

As he laid on the cold steel bed of that table, seconds after the needle was administered, Buddy licked my hand.

And then his soft brown eyes closed forever.


I like to think that Buddy left this world on his own terms.

It started with a ride in the car when he was two months old and ended with a car ride at the age of nine.