Letting Go

So my dog died tonight. He was 17. I know thats old for a golden retriever. Really old. He outlived (by at least five years) all the puppies from four litters (he was from the first litter of 13) and both his parents. I know that lots of people think their dog is great. There are lots of great dogs. My dog, however, really was the best dog in the world. He had his own pet chicken. He was a love dog. Lots of people loved him. And he loved everyone equally. He made me seem a much better person than I am. He was my emotional connection to the world. The last couple of years were harder for him. His arthritis was getting hard to manage but he kept pretending to be ok because he knew I think, how hard it was going to be for me to let go. Then on friday night he left food in his bowl. For the first time in 17 years, he left food in his bowl. I knew that was the end really. I saw the left over food and burst into tears. We took him to the vet but the vet said 'he's fine and in great shape'. I knew though. Isn't it funny how animals can speak without speaking? I wish I understood people as well as I understand animals. That half a meal was his last meal. He didn't eat again. We took him back to the vet today to see his proper vet (not just the weekend one) and they still couldn't find a reason except his age. No cancer, no organ failure, no disease. Just age. By 5 o'clock he could no longer stand. And he was in pain. I could see it by the way he looked at me. Pleading. Trusting me to make it stop. So we did. We laid on the floor at the vets while the best dog the world has ever seen quietly went to sleep. Rest in peace old man. You rocked.