We made the heartbreaking decision to let Charley go on December 5, 2018. I wrote this letter a few days before.
Charley, you have been my loyal companion for more than fifteen years. The moment your dad brought you home, I fell in love. I remember crying tears of joy.
Your dad got lost trying to find the family we were adopting you from and came back several hours late. I sat at the window with your big sister, Cinder, waiting so impatiently for you.
When you arrived I ran to the door to hold you up and I cried. We didn’t know you were only four weeks old and had no teeth. I remember the sleepless nights those first weeks—bottle feeding you, softening puppy food with goat’s milk, and worrying when you were sick.
I used to jokingly tell your dad that you were my dog and that I loved you more. In recent years I’ve realized it wasn’t a joke; he loves you just as much. When you were diagnosed with diabetes last year, he gave you your first insulin shot and has given every one since, despite his fear of needles. He has taken such good care of you, and his heart is breaking too.
You were the first dog I raised from puppyhood into adulthood, and in many ways you helped fill the void left by the dog I lost as a little girl named Morgan. But one dog never truly replaces another. We adopted you when I was 23 and now I’m 38—we grew up together.
You were an only dog for four years after we said goodbye to your sister Cinder. That was one of the hardest decisions we’ve ever made. You let us love on you and gave us comic relief by stealing towels and a little seedling we planted on Earth Day—those trees are huge now, and I’ll always think of you and Cinder when I see them.
When we adopted Angel, you welcomed her as your little sister. You played with her, let her take toys from your mouth, and looked at us when she stole your bed. More than anything, you adored each other.
My heart aches because we can’t explain to her that you will be pain-free, that you need to leave now. I wish I could tell you so you would understand how much my heart hurts, that you’re not a burden and I don’t want you to suffer any longer.
I’ve gone through countless tissues and cried into your fur, Charley. You’ve probably wondered, what’s up with my mama?
It’s hard to put into words how much you mean to me. We took obedience and agility classes together when you were a puppy. You may have been one of the worst agility students, but we had so much fun.
When you were five, we were terrified after you lost almost 16 pounds and we didn’t know why. It turned out to be exocrine pancreatic insufficiency, a condition that prevented you from digesting food properly and started us down a long road of medication.
Over the years you endured hip surgery, back surgery, another hip surgery, dental surgery this year to remove a thankfully benign mass, and you even fought cancer earlier this year. You faced each challenge with strength and grace. No matter what, you always seemed to smile and you showered us and the vet techs with kisses.
You’re the only dog I’ve ever known to warn us before getting sick—if we didn’t take you out, it was our fault. And you were also the only dog I’ve known who genuinely loved going to the vet.
I can’t imagine life without you. Saying goodbye feels so familiar and yet impossible because we’ve made this painful choice before. I’m already grieving you, which doesn’t feel fair because you’re still here.
Sometimes I irrationally feel that you were robbed—you’ve been through so much and I just want more time: more moments to stroke your soft fur, more time to hold and kiss you, more car rides and walks.
But it wouldn’t be fair to keep you if you’re in pain. Your body is wearing down and I know you are tired. You have been tired for a while.
I don’t know how to end this letter except to say I love you more than you will ever know.