About a dog ...

We were told she couldn’t be our dog when we first met her. Her name was Laney, and the person who
ran the Cochrane Humane Society had decided to keep her for herself. She was that sweet.

She was three months old, had a high-pitched yelp, floppy ears and a nasty scar across her belly, the
result of a fight with another dog on the nearby reserve where she was born.

Her first three months were tough. She ran wild, eating garbage to survive. It was unlikely that she had
ever experienced a pat or a hug. Probably a few kicks, but almost certainly not a belly scratch.
A couple of days after we visited her, the humane society called to say she was ours. We had won them
over, and we were dog owners.

We drove her home, and named her Tana.

She spent the next 14 years by my side. She was my only real constant, my longest friend, the bearer of
secrets and whispered stories. She licked my face when she knew I was sad, and she came to me when
she needed some love.

She was always there when I came home.

The first few years she was a blaze of fur and tail, jumping at me before I could get in the door.

The last few years, you could hear her before you could see her, as she thumped off our bed and
carefully made her way down the stairs to greet us.

And the past few months, she would wait for us to come to her, tailing wagging as we walked into the
bedroom to scratch her ears.

Every night, I’d lay down with her and tell her that I loved her. I’m certain she knew what it meant.

And every morning I’d tell her the same thing. It was the last thing I would say before I left the house.
She would look at me as I walked out the door, with those eyes that said ‘stay home today, stay with
me”.

We knew that she was getting old. Fourteen years is a long time for a dog like her. She had slowed down
a lot, and spent more time sleeping than just about anything else.

But, she still threw her beloved soft toys around the living room, just to show off. She still barked at
anyone who walked past our house.

She would still lose her mind at the marmalade cat who lived across the street. She would still snatch a
hot dog from your hands if given half a chance.

And, she still walked to school most days, pausing at her regular spots for a sniff before being mauled by
a gaggle of kids who waited for her inside the gates each morning.

She spent soccer practices chewing on sticks, she loved to lay in the sun on our back porch, and she
would do just about anything for cheese.

She would still chase rabbits, although it was more thought than action. She loved walking up to the
nearby skate-park with the neighbourhood kids.
And, she still loved going for a car ride, her face out the window, her ears pressed flat behind her. Our
car was always coated in brittle, red dog hair; when you drove anywhere, you always left with a piece of
her stuck to your coat.

I knew the most horrible of days was coming, eventually. I’d thought about it, prepared for it, in my
mind.

But I wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t there.

We got the call early in the morning. We were halfway around the world, staying at a remote New
Zealand beach village. We weren’t home for another six days.

Tana couldn’t get up, her back legs were no longer strong enough to get her off her bed. She was
panting heavily and didn’t know why she couldn’t get up.

My ex-wife, who loved Tana with all her heart, told us she was taking her to the vet, and wondered if we
wanted to say goodbye, just in case the news wasn’t good.

So, we sat in front of an iPhone, and each told Tana that we loved her very much. Her ears pricked up,
and we all broke down.

Two hours later, we got the call we had been dreading – the vet had said that nothing more could be
done, and Tana breathed her last breaths in a sterile room a long, long way away.

I sobbed so much I couldn’t tell the kids, and my girlfriend had to take over. Carter rubbed my back and
tried to make me feel better. Then he started sobbing too - Tana had known him his whole life.

I went for a swim, so I could cry and nobody could see my tears.

I still feel as though I let her down. I wasn’t there to make her feel better, to nuzzle her neck and tell her
that things would be okay; and I wasn’t there to make her comfortable, to hold her paw or to tell her
that I loved her.

That will be a lifelong regret.

I know all dog owners say this, but she was the best dog anyone could have. She was playful and funny,
and was the most sensitive beast. She could play with your emotions by simply rolling her brown eyes.

If we went away for the weekend, she’d make sure we knew she was upset. She wouldn’t let us off the
hook for an hour, refusing to look us in the eye until the suitcases were unpacked and put away.

She was smart as a whip, stubborn and determined, and loyal to a fault. She had the best smile.

At night, she would take up half of our bed, stretching out before drifting off. She was immovable.
Often, she would run in her sleep, all four legs going at once. We like to think she was dreaming of
chasing rabbits.

She had us wrapped around her paws. When she could no longer jump up onto our bed, we provided
her with a stool so she could climb up herself.

We put a plastic drink bowl next to her bed. She almost always got to eat a piece of my dinner, every
night. I would lift her in and out of the car, so she could still go on drives.

Some nights she would wake up shaking, because her stomach was rumbling and she didn’t know what
it was. I’d cut up pieces of cheese and feed them to her, one by one, until the rumbles went away and
she could focus on eating her dog food.

She hated storms, so we would huddle with her through claps of thunder, telling her it would be okay.

And, in the winter, when her paws froze during our ever shorter walks, we’d warm her paws in our
hands.

She was a well-traveled pooch. When I moved back to New Zealand for a few years, she came with me,
enduring six weeks of quarantine which ended with a trip to the beach for the first time. A prairie dog,
she couldn’t quite understand the waves.

When I returned to Canada, she returned with me, even securing herself a walk on the beach during a
layover in Hawaii.

She led us on hikes in the Rockies, dove into freezing lakes, and swam away from a bear when it
stumbled onto one of our fishing adventures on the Bow River. She didn’t even look back to see if I was
okay.

Last summer, she drove with us to Vancouver Island, and got to see her favourite place – the beach – for
the last time.

We pulled into a parking lot near Tofino, and she ran to the water’s edge as though she was a puppy
again. She slurped the salt water and dug in the sand. She was so happy, I cried.

There are so many stories, so many memories. She was a part of almost everything I did, for the better
part of 14 years. It’s impossible to describe how much I miss her.

If it was just the two of us at home, she would follow my every step and curl up near my feet. She could
always, always make me happy.

When my girlfriend would have a shower, Tana would lay down at the door, waiting for her to come out.

If she was having a bath, she would nudge open the bathroom door with her nose, just to make sure she
hadn’t slipped beneath the bubbles.
She used to lay on the kids’ beds, until she could no longer jump up. I’d often find her fast asleep on the
floor beside them. She gave herself the job of ensuring we were all safe, and she took it seriously.

I was hoping we would get to spend one more summer together, to go for slow walks, to lay in the sun,
to throw and chase sticks, to eat barbecued hot dogs.

The last time I was with her, I let her into the backseat of my car so she could stick her head out the
window. I patted her head, scratched her ears, kissed her nose and told her I loved her.

It’s been almost two weeks, and she has left a huge hole. Last night, I went downstairs for a snack, and
found myself patting my right hip, urging her to follow me.

My girlfriend and I still lay on the right side of the bed, so Tana can stretch out on the left.

Her food and water bowl remain untouched at the back door. Her toy chipmunks are under the couch,
along with balls of her fur, which gathered like tumbleweed. There’s no way I can vacuum them up.

I found one of her poo-bags in a jacket pocket and felt tears welling up. I keep waiting to hear her
running down the stairs.

I have laid down on her bed, to get a sense of being near her. It still smells like Tana, and I can’t bear to
put it in the garage.

We have her ashes, but I don’t know what to do with them.

Without her by my side, I feel unmoored. She was a constant presence, through good and bad. When
she was around, she made everything better.

I wish I could have thanked her for that, explained to her that she was important, told her that she was
loved.

She was a smart girl though. I hope she knew.