We let Wendel go yesterday.
He was a 13-year-old collie-shepherd mix who joined our family in the fall of 2013. He was just ten weeks old at the time, and our kids were twelve and ten years old.
Several months ago, he started having trouble getting up and down the front and back steps of our house. On top of that, we were noticing some cognitive decline — occasional bouts of agitation and disorientation, especially in the overnight hours, that were becoming more frequent and more pronounced in the past month.
Yesterday morning, after a long night of pacing around the main floor of our house, he finally got calm and laid down on the floor. He was comfortable for a while, but when he tried to get up and go out the back door, he couldn’t get his legs under him.
That was when we knew. It was time.
I could go on and on about Wendel. He was kind. He was gentle. He was curious. He was smart. He loved his family. He loved a good, long walk through the city park at the end of our street (in the days when he still had the strength in his hind legs to make the trip). He could be anxious around strangers at times, but once he decided you were safe, you were his friend for life.
He was a sports fan too. In the summer months, he’d sit in the grass and watch the teams of the local softball league face off on the baseball diamonds at the park. When the spectators clapped and cheered, he would bark along with them to join in the enthusiasm of the moment.
He loved a good romp with the soccer ball in our back yard. He would’ve made a hell of a goalie, because nothing ever got past him.
And he loved the holidays. You wouldn’t think a dog would have the capacity for that kind of festive sensibility, but Wendel did. When family would come for Thanksgiving, he soaked in the attention and affection from our nieces, and he enjoyed sitting by the sofa after dinner to spend some quiet time with our brother-in-law.
And as we transitioned from November into December and put up our Christmas tree, he would sit proudly in front of it and ring in the season by pointing his nose straight up and singing a yuletide hymn. His melody was unrecognizable, but his joy was undeniable.
In a world of good boys, he was one of the best.
Our house is exceptionally quiet on this Memorial Day. There are no claws clicking on the hardwood floor of the dining room in the wee hours. No one is poking their nose at us to get us out of bed. There’s no tapping on the back door in a request to go out. There’s no further need to put out a bowl of food in the kitchen. The toys on the living room floor wait patiently for a playmate who won’t be back.
We knew this was coming. We had even started making a plan for it. It was something we would do later in the summer when our children — now almost twenty-five and twenty-three — could come into town and be with us. We’d all be together to send him on his way, just like we were all together when we brought him into our home and our family almost thirteen years ago.
You always think you have more time.
Eventually we’ll get past the sadness. Routines and patterns will change. The hard emotional edges will soften. The tears will be less frequent, and the funny stories and fond memories will endure.
And six months from now, after the Thanksgiving leftovers are packed away and Christmas is suddenly looming large, we’ll put up the tree and the decorations like we always do, and we’ll fill the house with the usual holiday sounds of Sinatra, Crosby, Nat Cole, Fiedler and the Boston Pops, Vince Guaraldi, and all the rest.
And hopefully, if we listen closely, we’ll still hear the song of a happy boy sitting in the middle of the room, surrounded by his family and the warm glow of the season.
Godspeed, Wendel. You were a good boy, and you still are. You were always loved, and you always will be. And you’ll never be forgotten.
Sleep in heavenly peace.