The first couple days of the new year hit me in a way I was not ready for. I usually come into January with a plan. Clean slate energy. New goals. New charts. New content ideas. But real life does not care about calendars, and this year started with me having to say goodbye to my hiking partner.
She was my dog for eleven years, and if you have ever had a trail dog you already understand what that means. She was not just around the house. She was part of the rhythm. Shoes on meant she was up. Keys in my hand meant she was at the door. If I took a wrong turn on a trail she let me know. If I slowed down she slowed down too, but she always stayed close.
Then the tumor grew so fast it felt unreal. It started on her right shoulder, like a golf ball. I kept thinking maybe it was something simple. Maybe inflammation. Maybe a bad bump. Within weeks it was huge, like a football, and every day I looked at it hoping it would somehow shrink or stop. It did not. I watched her trying to be tough through it, still giving me that look like she was ready to go, even when her body clearly was not.
The day we took her in, we got to the vet around eight. They took her back and came out with news that made my stomach drop. Bone cancer. Heart disease. And other issues that come with age catching up all at once. She was turning eleven in March. I keep replaying that in my head. March. Like we were so close to one more birthday, one more little celebration, one more stretch of time where I could pretend things were normal.
I made the decision to put her down, and I know it was the compassionate call. I know that. But grief does not always care what you know. It cares what you feel, and what I feel is a mix of missing her, heartbreak, and guilt that still sneaks in when things get quiet. I keep thinking about the days before. I keep asking myself if I waited too long. If I should have done it earlier so she did not have to carry that pain. That guilt has been haunting me, even though I was trying to hope, trying to do the right thing, trying to give her comfort.
It is strange how the smallest things hit the hardest afterward. The empty spot where she would sleep. The pause before a walk when I instinctively look for her. The silence that shows up when a routine disappears. I miss my poor baby so much it hurts, and some moments it feels like the world just kept moving while I am still standing there holding that last day.
I am sharing this because this is real life behind the posts. Behind the charts and crypto talk and daily grind. Sometimes you have losses that do not fit into a schedule. If you have ever had to make that call for a pet, you know it is love and pain wrapped together. I am trying to be gentle with myself, and I am trying to remember that giving her peace was the last gift I could give.
Rest easy, my trail partner. I will carry you with me on every hike from here on out.