My earliest memory with you was being brought back from the kennel. You reminded me of my mom, except she was older, yellow, and angry the last time I saw her. You were the same size as her — or perhaps I was too small to notice any difference — but you were incredibly happy to see me. I was scared and missed my mom that day, but I felt welcomed thanks to you.
“Black Squirrel” — our humans sometimes pull up an old photo of me and laugh at just how small I was.
I never really did understand our difference in color. Half of my siblings were black and half were yellow. And you’re brown, except a darker brown than most other brown Labradors I see. I hear it has to do with your dad — he was a black lab like me. I also hear he was a champion.
I was supposed to be a champion. I was the first pick of the litter. But my legs were somewhat stubby and I was never a big guy.
Speaking of legs, not too long ago we were running around in the dog park. I’d like to apologize for being so aggressive with you. You were like an older sister to me for most of our life, but when we were at the park I would get ahead of myself and run at you too fast. I probably got what I deserved when I tore my CCL and had to hop around for two years.
But now you’re hopping around on three legs like I did, even though your CCL is intact. I heard our humans talk about severe arthritis. I’m sorry if it had to do with me every time I played too rough.
I hear it’s very normal at this age, with you being 12 and myself being 10 and a half.
I’m scared.
You were always the brave one. You’re only a year and a half older than me, but you’ve never been scared of anything. Whenever the fire alarm went off with that god-awful beep and I ran across the road… you sat still, unbothered.
Whenever we ran off and had them look for us, you always led the way.
Whenever we ate the forbidden chocolate… it was you who devised the plan.
I… I heard them talking about going to the vet. And I know that at this age vets don’t really perform surgery.
I’m really scared.
This is scarier than the alarm or the stairs. This is scarier than the vet. And I know I’m getting to this age. Yet I’m not scared of death.
I’m scared because I’ve never been alone in my life.
From the day I came home you were always there. I never left you. We never went for a walk apart.
You were always a bit stubborn, they say. I know sometimes you just didn’t want to walk. Or maybe you wanted to go to the trail instead of the park, and in protest you just sat there with the leash stretched out.
And whenever they took you back home because of that and tried to walk me alone, I always bit the leash and pulled back to go home.
To be with you.
And I don’t know what’s going to happen. Our human is in tears on his laptop right now. Maybe he needs our support.
I don’t want you to go just yet. You were always so strong and so resilient. So independent. You’re strong enough to fight it. Please stay with me.
Just one more year.
