This is a post I have been dreading writing.
After a long conversation with Rascal’s veterinarian, we have made the terribly difficult decision that it is time to let him go. His final appointment is Wednesday morning, September 30.
Even writing those words hurts.
Rascal has been part of our family for fourteen years, but calling him our dog has never really captured what he has been to me. In recent years, he has been my companion. My shadow. My walking partner. My quiet presence through more chapters of life than I can easily count.
And somewhere along the way, particularly over these last few years, the two of us became partners in something else.
When I went through cancer surgery, Rascal was there.
Then cancer came for him, too.
When the decision was made to amputate his front leg, we weren’t ready to give up on him. He came home and learned how to live on three legs with a determination that was pure Rascal. We cared for him through surgery, recovery and treatment, just as he had quietly accompanied me through mine.
I suppose that is one of the reasons this hurts as much as it does. We went through it together.
But age has finally caught up with my little buddy. His body is failing him in ways that determination can no longer overcome. Walking is difficult and increasingly painful. His eyesight is largely gone. His world has become smaller. Medication can help some things, but it cannot give him back the life he once had.
And so, we reached that awful responsibility that comes with loving an animal: deciding when our desire for one more day with them has become less important than releasing them from pain.
I know this is the right decision. I hate this decision. Those two things can apparently be true at exactly the same time.
We have a couple of days together. I wanted that. After waiting more than a year for our house on Harstine Island, I wanted Rascal to have some time here with us. I wanted him to know our place as home, even if only for a little while. And now we are back in UP before the final appointment. A walk to Starbucks. Loving care at the home he knew well.
So these days aren’t about waiting for Wednesday. They’re about Rascal.
A few more treats. A few more times sitting and holding him. A few more chances to scratch that familiar little head and tell him what a good boy he is. A few more mornings waking up and knowing that he is still here.
On Wednesday, I will stay with him through the entire procedure. Other family members will join us. He will fall asleep with us beside him, hearing the voices and feeling the hands of the people who have loved him his whole life.
Afterward, we will have him privately cremated, and his ashes will come home with us to Harstine. I’ve already picked out a place for his final rest.
I thought getting to this point would somehow make the decision easier. It hasn’t.
There is already an emptiness forming around the places he occupies in my life—the routines, the sounds, the little responsibilities that have quietly structured fourteen years of ordinary days. I don’t think I fully understood how much space such a small dog could occupy until I began imagining that space without him.
Rascal stayed beside me when I was hurting.
I stayed beside him when he was hurting.
And now the last thing I can do for my old friend is stay beside him while he leaves.
That’s the deal, I suppose.
We accompany each other as far as we can.
And then, when the time comes, love means having the courage to say: You’ve gone far enough, buddy.
You can rest now.
I’ll be right here.
September 30 update: Rascal passed quietly this morning, September 30, 2026, 8:40a at Fircrest Veterinary Hospital. He’s with my mom now.
