THIS IS AN OPINION
We'd also like to hear yours.
Tweet us @ArkBusiness or email us
I’m writing this column through watery eyes.
I just returned home from the office, and for the first time, I wasn’t greeted by a wagging tail and 80 pounds of golden fur leaning into my legs.
I’ll go ahead and warn you that this column isn’t much about business, or maybe it is. Our businesses, after all, are made up of people, and this is a column about a small part of being human.
Maybe that’s a stretch. Maybe I just wanted to write about the best dog in the world.
My boy Brady, our 7-year-old Golden Retriever who changed me in ways I never expected, died in my and my wife’s arms a few days before Thanksgiving after a very brief bout with cancer.
I know everyone says their dog is the best, but for my family, Brady was.
He came to my wife and me as a puppy as we were focused on advancing our careers and building a life together.
He taught me how to put the care of someone else above my own. He showed me the value of slowing down, enjoying the walk, taking in all the sights and sounds and smells.
He taught me how meaningful consistent, unconditional love and affection can be, how simply being there matters.
He helped pull us through the deaths of family members and friends, years of infertility and miscarriage. At the end of those hard days, he’d jump on the couch and rest his head in your lap. The weight and warmth of his head felt like the kindest hug from a close friend.
He was in the middle of us as we celebrated promotions, two new homes and the birth of our first child.
He went from being a rowdy puppy at the center of our attention to a gentle, watchful big brother. The first word our son spoke and truly understood was “Bubba,” Brady’s nickname. I look forward to the day when I can hear him say that name and it brings a smile instead of a stabbing pain. I know it will come in time.
It’s odd the things you miss. His constant shedding drove me crazy; now, I can’t bear to sweep up the last of his fur.
I catch myself walking down the hallway and wondering why the pitter-pattering of his paws on our hardwood isn’t following me. It was part of the soundtrack of my life that I didn’t even realize was there until it was gone.
It’s a common enough saying now that dogs’ only flaw is that they don’t live long enough. They leave behind tufts of fur on our floors, empty beds, half-chewed toys and holes in our chests.
It’s a different kind of grief, burying a dog.
It can only be avoided if we choose not to welcome them into our homes and our lives in the first place.
But, oh, that sounds so much worse.
Sign up for Daily E-news
