His name was Tai.
He was an abandoned mutt and ended up in a small cage at the Anti-Cruelty Society facility on LaSalle Street in Chicago. My daughters and I saw him and something clicked. We had a short "meet and greet" session with him in one of the adoption rooms. Our last dog, a papillon, had been hit by a car and died. We felt that the little pooch could fill the hole.
He only had one eye. We never learned how he lost the other one.
He weighed 10 pounds, soaking wet.
His fur was black, with a white diamond on his chest. As he aged, he turned grey in the muzzle, just like me.
The amount of hair he would shed in a week was roughly equivalent to his body weight.
He must have been a circus dog in a previous life. He could stand up on his hind legs to dance and twirl in circles, and he could sit up and beg for an hour non-stop. His vertical leap was equal to four times his height.
His favorite thing in the world was to play ball, but it had to be with his Special Ball. Other identical balls could not replace his Special Ball and would be ignored if thrown.
My car was his happy place. Tai was the best riding partner, and we drove from Evanston IL to Santa Fe NM a couple of times to visit my son.
If Tai liked you, he would show it by seeking physical contact. He didn't like to be forced into cuddles, however.
He was permanently scruffy due to his ferocious sense of bodily autonomy. No one was allowed to cut, brush or otherwise alter his fur. He would shift into his alter ego - the raging cyclops weasel from Hell - when he felt a boundary had been crossed. It was a surprising transition, and sort of terrifying.
He was with me during my horrific divorce. He performed amusing antics daily as I struggled in my new role as a single, working dad with two teenagers under my roof.
He followed me around constantly.
The only times he howled is when I played the harmonica. I think he was singing along, but it sounded like wails of anguish.
He made sure I got out for walks at least three times each day.
He was always glad to see me. The humans in my life were not always pleased when I arrived.
He loved the early part of the pandemic when I spent 95% of my time at home. He wanted to play fetch at least five times a day during that period.
Father Time is a thief, and Tai slowly got robbed. When he passed his 16th birthday, the robberies became frequent.
He couldn't run as fast or as far as he could when he was younger.
He lost his ability to jump on my bed.
He was diagnosed with mitral valve disesase, which leads to congestive heart failure. He was showing signs of congestive heart failure - coughing, wheezing, vomiting.
He was in pain from arthritis.
He would no longer tolerate wearing a leash or a collar.
He could no longer jump into the car, and he wouldn't let me pick him up.
His alter ego, the raging cyclops weasel from Hell, emerged more often, sometimes without warning.
He didn't want to leave his dog bed, even when offered treats.
And finally, he started falling down the stairs.
I have served as companion to seven dogs over the course of my life, and I have been present when three of them were euthanized. It was awful, but I told myself "They are just dogs - buck up and don't be weak."
I could not say that when it came time to end Tai's pain. He was not just a dog. He was my boon companion, my four-legged, one-eyed, 10 lb. therapist.
My fiancée and I knew that it was our responsibility as Tai's guardians to give him a good death. In fact, the word "euthanasia" is from the Greek words for "good death."
We called Olivia, a veterinarian who provides an in-home service. She is highly skilled, and a true angel of mercy.
It is a two-step process. First, a strong sedative is injected into the back muscle of the dog. Once the animal is asleep, the final drug is injected into a vein to stop the heart.
I held Tai in my lap. He was afraid. The first injection was painful and he screamed.
His distress didn't last long. He fell asleep. Olivia expertly handled the next step, and he was gone.
Yeah, our hearts broke.
Tai left us on March 19, 2025. His paraphernalia (food, beds, winter coats, leashes, poop bags) have been donated to our local animal shelter.
I kept his collar, and his Special Ball.
The house seems so quiet. I keep thinking it is time to walk Tai, and then I remember. I keep seeing him in the shadows of our home, and then I remember. I can hear his nails clicking on our hardwood floors in the middle of the night when I can't sleep, and then I remember. I know this is a common experience for people who have lost their dogs.
All this will pass, I guess. Maybe I will even come to enjoy the freedom of living a dog-free life.
For now, I will sit with this loss, and remember to be grateful for the 12 years of canine devotion that I received.
I'll always love the small dog named Tai.
