Saying Goodbye to Hoss

I could tell the end was coming, although it all happened pretty fast.

A couple weeks ago, I started noticing that our bloodhound-mix, Hoss, was having more difficulty moving around. It made me stop and re-calculate his age: almost 12.

We were never entirely sure of his age because he was a rescue dog, but we have had him for nearly 11 years.

I went online and researched how long bloodhounds typically live: 10-12 years.

I started having conversations with the boys about how Hoss was getting really old and how he might die soon so we should enjoy every possible minute with him.

Then he started having bad days. He would spend the whole day lying in one place, not eating or drinking. The next day, he would be seemingly fine. All of his energy was back.

Then last week, I was on a conference call at home from 7:30am-9am. After that, I was responding to e-mails and heard a thump come from another room. I called out to Matt (who works from home), “Are you okay?” Then I saw him run into our office from the kitchen. I followed suit.

Hoss had slipped off the bed and was lying on the floor. He was breathing rapidly and his eyes were going back and forth. I started petting him, which helped his breathing settle a little. Matt called the vet.

In my heart I knew it was the end, and I knew there wasn’t anything we could do except be with him and let him know that we loved him and will always love him. We stayed by his side petting him and telling him how much he meant to us.

His body started seizing up, and in a minute or so he was completely still.

Matt and I stayed there for a long time trying to soak in the feeling of his fur, his soft ears, his layers and layers of saggy skin.

We then drove to school to pick up the boys and tell them what had happened. It was as traumatic as you would imagine. There was so much crying from all of us.

The boys said goodbye to Hoss’s body and then we all drove to the vet to drop him off for cremation. We then drove to the park behind our old house where Hoss spent a lot of time.

I’ve been trying to give myself time and space to grieve properly. My therapist says (and I concur) that one of my coping mechanisms is to compartmentalize difficult feelings and move on too quickly with optimism and resilience.

I feel myself saying things like, “Are you seriously going to spend so much time being upset about a dog while there are other people all around the world with much more significant problems?”

Hoss has been an institution in our lives for the past 11 years. Matt and I got him before we were even married. He was our neighbor’s dog, and we hated him because he howled right next to our bedroom all night long.

Eventually, I made friends with him through the fence—asking our neighbor if it was okay for us to feed Hoss dog biscuits. We noticed that our neighbor left Hoss outside all the time, even in the snowiest and coldest conditions.

One day, we got up the courage to ask our neighbor if we could have Hoss. He said yes. And the rest is history, or Hosstery.

Hoss has traveled with us on road trips—I remember all of us getting attacked by giant mosquitoes at the Great Salt Lake. I remember us packing up our camping site in the middle of rural Oregon after we heard a gun shot. We drove and drove until we finally find a hotel that accepted dogs. Thank goodness for Motel 6!

Hoss was in our wedding. He was so nervous he ate a lot of grass and then threw up at the start of the ceremony.

Hoss was always Matt’s co-pilot in our various U-Hauls over the years: from Colorado to Houston, from Houston to our Austin rental house, from our Austin rental house to our permanent home.

Hoss loved the dog park. He loved the creeks. He loved brownie mix, sneaking into the trash, cheese, and belly rubs.

Hoss has been an indelible part of our family from the very beginning. Hoss, you will be missed dearly and remembered with such fondness. Always.