One Year Later

One year ago today, our beloved collie Duncan passed away. I had been expecting this for a few months. In fact, when we took him to the vet the Friday before, I didn’t expect him to be coming back home with us. Thankfully, he did. But just four days later, his last day abruptly came. I thought I had prepared myself for it. I found out I hadn’t. There was no way I could have.

A week after he died, I published a blog post that included a section about Duncan. This is what I wrote then:

GOODBYE UNTIL WE SEE YOU AGAIN

Last week, my wife and I did the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do—we had to say goodbye to our sweet collie Duncan. Duncan was a special boy. We found him through a collie rescue group in May 2015. Our initial attempt to adopt him was denied; our second attempt a few weeks later was approved. He was living with a foster family about five hours away from us, so we met them about halfway. We didn’t know anything about his backstory—all we knew was that he was maybe a year or two old. I was initially reluctant about the whole thing, but as soon as we pulled into the Cracker Barrel parking lot and saw him, my reluctance vanished in a flash. Duncan seemed to instantly realize he had found his forever family, and an unbreakable bond was formed right then and there. My wife called him her little angel. For me, he was my bestest little buddy.

Unbreakable Bond May 2015

Duncan was high spirited with a lot of energy and exuberance, and we very quickly learned he wasn’t really a city dog. We eventually found and bought a new house with some land, and he was so happy to go outside and patrol his property. He loved to race the mail truck, or the FedEx truck, or the UPS truck. It didn’t matter to him. He would reach the end of the fence where he would bark at the truck and “chase” it away. Then he would turn around and trot back to the house with his chest out and head held high, immensely proud of what he had just done.

He loved lying in the yard, staring toward the neighbors’ property just waiting to see their chickens so he could bark at them. He would do this for hours, just waiting to spot those “evil” chickens working their way through the brush, then jump and bark and bark and bark. Sometimes, just hearing the chickens cluck or the rooster crow was sufficient. He took great pride in doing his job well.

As time passed, though, he started slowing down as we all do. He didn’t run as fast or walk as far or play as much as he once did. He spent more and more of his day sleeping. When Duncan began having trouble standing without assistance, we began to realize that Father Time was winning—as he always does. When he couldn’t walk more than a few steps without his legs giving out on him, when he could no longer sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, when he no longer wanted to eat—always one of his favorite activities—we knew what Duncan was trying to tell us, even if our hearts didn’t want to hear it. So, we let him go with dignity and grace.

I know he’s in a far better place now free of pain where he is running and playing like he used to do. Still, my heart has a hole in it that will never heal. But I know that all the grief I feel is a very small price to pay for what Duncan gave us for the last 10 years.

You will always be in our hearts, my bestest little buddy. Rest in peace, my precious Duncan. I promise Mama and I will see you again.

May 2015 — June 2025

They say time heals all wounds. That’s not true. Not all wounds can be healed. It’s been exactly one year since that day, and the hole in my heart hasn’t healed. At best, it’s scabbed over with a scab that is easily and often knocked off.

For a few weeks after he died, I did something I had never done before and have never done since. Every day, I would write down how I felt—a diary of sorts, I guess. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I thought it would help me get through the sorrow, the guilt. It didn’t. Maybe I thought it would help me remember. But I don’t need the help because I still remember that day like it happened this morning. I remember how I felt because I’m still feeling it.

I still carry the guilt I felt then. Not guilt for what happened. That was what was best for Duncan. It wasn’t best for me, but it was best for him. That’s the only thing that matters.

No, it’s guilt over feelings I never should have felt. It’s guilt over things I did that I never should have done. It’s guilt over feeling like I abandoned him when he needed me most. It’s a guilt that will never, ever go away.

The only thing that has really changed in the last year is I’m better at hiding it. Hiding it from others.

But I can’t hide it from myself because it’s the little things, the little daily occurrences that I used to not give a second thought to, that now sneak up on me and catch me unprepared.

Every time I get out of bed, I still take a quick look to see if maybe, just maybe, he’s lying beside the bed like he so often did.

Every time a FedEx or UPS truck rumbles by, I still take a quick look out the window expecting to see a blur of white racing it trying to beat the truck to the corner of the yard where he would do his famous “spin bark” to let that truck know who won.

Whenever I hear the neighbors’ chickens clucking, I still wait for the bark that I know will never come, yet I hope that one day I will wake up from this bad dream and everything will be as it was.

I used to drive home slowly hoping I could avoid the inevitable. I don’t do that now because I can’t avoid that inevitability, but I still feel angst when I pull into the garage because I know that, as much as I wish otherwise, there will be no Duncan waiting in the yard to greet me or standing at the door waiting for me to chase him to the bedroom to get his bone.

For 10 years, Duncan was an important part of our lives. He was family. He was our little boy. Having been abandoned at least once in his life, he had a fear that when we left, we weren’t coming back. He always wanted to know that “his people” were nearby at all times. When I had to travel for work, my wife would tell me how he would go lie in the yard around 4:00 every afternoon to wait for me to come home and would perk up whenever he saw similarly colored trucks come down the road. Hearing that always made me sad because I always believed that he was afraid I wasn’t coming home again. Now, his fear has been realized, only in reverse. He’s gone, and I am the one waiting for him to come home.

At the end, Duncan was in pain. My brain knows we absolutely did the right thing for him. But knowing that does not comfort my heart or replace the piece of it that is missing every day.

I made a promise to my bestest little buddy a year ago, and a promise is a promise. Mama and I WILL see you again one day, and we will never be separated again.

Until then, we miss you so, so much.

Duncan, my bestest little buddy Taken June 10, 2024