Two years ago, I brought Chooch to the vet for what I thought was a minor issue—a small ear infection. He didn’t even seem too bothered by it, just shook his head a little more than usual and gave me that same goofy look like, “What’s the fuss, buddy?” The vet reassured me it was nothing serious, gave us some drops, and told me he’d be fine in a few days. And he was. Back to chasing squirrels, snuggling on the couch, and begging for scraps like nothing ever happened.
Looking back now, that moment hits different. At the time, I had no idea it would be one of the last times I’d sit in a vet’s office with him and leave feeling hopeful. I always did my best to take care of him—premium food, regular checkups, early morning walks even when I was exhausted. I took pride in knowing that Chooch was healthy, happy, and loved.
I thought we had time. I thought we’d make it to ten years, maybe more. But life doesn’t always follow our plans. One day you’re tossing a ball in the yard, and the next you’re holding them in your arms, trying to memorize the way their chest rises and falls, knowing it won’t for much longer.
Chooch wasn’t just a dog—he was my best friend. The kind of soul who knew when I needed silence, when I needed a distraction, and when I just needed him to rest his head on my knee and remind me I wasn’t alone. He was there for every heartbreak, every celebration, every quiet Sunday. Always loyal. Always present.
There are still moments where I instinctively reach for the leash or glance at the back door expecting to see him waiting. Sometimes I still hear phantom footsteps, or feel that small weight at the foot of the bed. Grief lingers in unexpected places.
I miss you, Chooch. More than words can say. Thank you for every single moment. You were the best friend a man could ever ask for, and I hope you know that—wherever you are.
