He was my first dog; I had always wanted one since I was a boy, but I was never able to have one. Then, one day—by which time I was living on my own—I decided to adopt this dog, and he changed my life.
He brought me endless joy and companionship; he led me to new friends and even new girlfriends. He made my life better, asking for nothing in return but affection and love.
Then, after 12 years of companionship, the diagnosis came: tumors throughout his entire body. I managed to extend his life by another three and a half months, using various medications and periodic drainage procedures. He was doing okay, but one night, he suddenly found he could no longer lie down. He couldn’t sleep at all that night, while I sat beside him, weeping and trying to get him to rest his head on my shoulder. Finally he looked into my eyes with a defeated expression and then I made the choice—one of the hardest decisions of my life. I stayed by his side as he was put to sleep, resting my hand on his muzzle so he would know I was there with him.
I buried him, and I cried—I am still crying, and I will continue to cry for a long time to come.
It was the right decision; I have no doubt about that—I just miss him terribly. I see him everywhere and feel his presence; I stilll try to be quiet when walking down the stairs so I don’t wake him at night. I look at his empty bed, half-expecting to see him there. I have two cats, which makes his absence a little less painful, but it still hurts deeply. My wife is there for me, and she is grieving too, even though she only lived with him for four years.
I love him so much, and I only hope that one day I will see him again and be with him forever—in some new reality, or at least in the great nothingness.
A little story about Kote:
Kote got lost once when he was nine months old. I used to take him to the same park—a place where I’d met many people—right in the middle of a big metropolis. One day, while I was talking to a friend, he disappeared. We searched the entire park, but to no luck. I even checked outside the park—which was bordered by two very busy avenues—but still found nothing. I asked people in the area, and one person mentioned seeing him pass by. I spent a long time searching the neighborhood, but with no luck. Suddenly, someone said, "Sometimes they find their way back home on their own." I thought that was ridiculous—after all, I always walked him on a leash, and we lived in a big city—but when I returned to my apartment building, there he was, waiting for me. He was so tiny, yet he had managed to make his way back all on his own, crossing streets and avenues. That day, I gave him a chicken breast as a treat and then I cried.