It rained today.
I sat watching it for hours, waiting for the vet to come, knowing exactly what was going to happen when they arrived and having absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do with myself in the meantime.
There are some days for which you simply don’t have words.
Today was one of them.
Today we laid Blitz to rest.
I knew this day was coming. I’ve known for a while. Her body had been slowly betraying the enormous spirit inside it, and eventually loving her meant accepting something I desperately didn’t want to accept.
There wasn’t going to be some magical morning when I woke up and felt ready to say goodbye.
There was only going to be the day when I loved her enough to do it anyway.
Last night we gave Blitz a T-bone steak.
And my God, did that dog enjoy it.
She gnawed on that bone with the enthusiasm of a puppy, and for those few beautiful minutes the years seemed to disappear. She wasn’t an old girl whose body had become tired. She was just Blitz — happy, determined, ridiculous Blitz — working on that bone like it was the most important assignment she had ever been given.
I watched her and smiled.
And then I cried.
Because it warmed my heart and broke it at exactly the same time.
Nearly sixteen years.
When you say it out loud, it sounds like such a long time. It’s an incredible life for a dog.
But today it doesn’t feel long at all.
It feels like I blinked.
Blitz has been woven into so much of my life that I’m not entirely sure yet how to understand a world in which she isn’t physically here. She was my running partner for years. She was there through ordinary mornings and terrible days and wonderful ones. She watched life change around us while remaining one of its constants.
Dogs don’t care about our accomplishments or our failures. They don’t care whether we’re impressive or productive or whether we’ve completely screwed something up.
They just know us.
And somehow they love us anyway.
Blitz knew me.
Today, she was able to leave this world at home. There was no frightening final car ride, no unfamiliar room. She was where she belonged, surrounded by the people who loved her.
And then we had to do the impossible thing.
We had to let her go.
I don’t have anything profound to say about grief today. I don’t have some inspirational lesson tucked neatly inside this experience. Maybe someday I’ll be able to look back and find one.
Right now, I just miss my dog.
I miss her while her memory is still everywhere.
I miss her even though part of me keeps expecting to see her.
And I know there will be countless tiny moments ahead when my brain forgets before my heart remembers.
But underneath this enormous grief is something else.
Gratitude.
Because I got nearly sixteen years with Blitz.
I got thousands of ordinary days that didn’t seem extraordinary at the time.
I got walks and runs and tail wags and ridiculous moments and companionship. I got to watch her grow from a younger dog into an old lady who was still perfectly capable of attacking a T-bone steak like nobody had informed her of her age.
I got to love her for her entire life.
And when her body couldn’t carry her the way it once had, we were able to give her one final gift.
We carried the pain for her.
That’s what today feels like.
She doesn’t have to struggle anymore.
We do.
And as unbearable as that feels right now, I would rather carry this heartbreak myself than ask her to carry one more difficult day for me.
So today it rained.
Today our house became a little quieter.
Today a chapter of my life that lasted nearly sixteen years ended, and I don’t know yet what I’m supposed to do with the empty space it left behind.
But last night, Blitz ate a T-bone steak.
She gnawed that bone like a puppy.
She was happy.
She was home.
She was loved.
And today, when it was time, she was still home.
She was still loved.
She always will be.
Rest easy, Blitz.
Thank you for nearly sixteen years.
Thank you for every mile.
Thank you for every ordinary day I didn’t know I would someday give anything to have back.
Thank you for being my girl.
There will never be another you.
And wherever all that beautiful dog energy goes when it finally leaves a tired old body, I hope you’re running again.
Run fast, sweet girl.
Your legs work now. ❤️🐾
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