Cold Turkey

The hardest thing I've ever done is quit cold turkey.

It's something I would never recommend.


Buddy was my black lab for nine years.  I don't remember many details between the day I picked him up at the pound as a puppy and his final day as a sick, gray bearded older dog. 

I recall the joy he and I both shared on his first car ride with me away from that cold prison-like structure where many good dogs wait on death row.  And of course, holding his warm paw in my hand as his soft brown eyes closed forever in the back room of that veternarian's office still lingers with me. 

Everything in between is a blur.  Sure, I recall little things like his unbridled enthusiasm at the sound of my jingling car keys.  Or how excited he was at the end of each day when I walked through the door.  Or his ridiculous embarrasment of taking a shit in front of me.  Buddy was funny, quirky and unlike all other dogs. 

The best thing about dogs is how they make us feel important.  Needed.  Wanted.  They satisfy the God complex in some of us.  They nurture those of us who have always felt slightly inadequate.  Despite being unable to speak, we don't need them to say I love you because they spend every minute of everyday proving they do. 

Dogs are merciful.  They forget when we've done them wrong but more importantly, they forgive.

The end of dog's life is also merciful.  We are usually given an opportunity to prepare ourselves, as much as we can, for their final breath. 

It was me who made the appointment to end Buddy's life.  It was me that gave him his last car ride for that final visit to his doctor.  It was me who chose to show him the same mercy he had provided for me over his nine short years by putting him to sleep to end his suffering.    And it was me that held his paw as his life ended.  Yet, in true dog spirit, it was Buddy that licked my hand seconds before his heart stopped beating.

That's mercy.  Grace.  Love. 


I lost a best friend over a decade ago.  None of us were shown mercy.  He went to bed one night and never woke up.  I suppose it was inevitable but devastating, nonetheless.  Addiction has a predictable outcome.  Usually. 

I watched this man try.  He really did try.  Rehab.  Cold turkey.  More rehab.  Faith.  Friends.   But he never did surrender his pride.  I suppose that's normal as well as his downfall.

Like my nine years with Buddy, my twenty three years with that best friend are a blur.  I remember little things and every once in awhile in the quiet moments of my life, an old memory resurfaces.  And of course, my heart sinks just a little lower.

There's this degree of anger I hold for him.  His early exit from life leaves all of us he left behind feeling incomplete.  No final words.  Not one more chance to shake some sense into him.  No more judging or mocking him in his weak moments.  Just one more time of asking ourselves will he make it? wasn't afforded to us.

He just went to bed and never woke up.

Unintended Cruelty.  Such is life.  Lose a child, a parent or a friend.  It's cruel.  Especially, when it's unexpected. 

This whole idiomatic expression cold turkey doesn't just relate to addictions like nicotine or alcohol or any other vice.  It can relate to people.  Quitting someone you love or once loved should never be an option.  There's enough unintended cruelty in our lives to add intentional suffering to it.

Dogs never quit us.  We all know stories of people quitting on their dogs but dogs, in their mindless loyalty and unconditional love, don't even consider quitting on us.  They can't get enough of us.  Ever.

There's something to be said in that.