May All Your Dogs Live Forever

I have this image of a cyclist pedaling through the rain. Tattoos running up his forearms, black-rimmed glasses fogged over and useless in the downpour.

I’m sure the video still exists somewhere on the internet, but it’s been at least a decade since I’ve seen it. Before YouTube became the gold standard, there was Vimeo, which hosted tons of beautiful mini-documentaries. My film school buddies would send me links to them religiously.

One of those videos documented the cyclist’s last day with his dog. The dog was old and sick and needed to be put to sleep. The details are foggy now, but I remember the cyclist was a recovered drug addict. His narration reflected on his darkest days — deadbeat friends sleeping on his couch, years lost to shame — and that throughout all of it, his dog was there. Through his most isolated and humbling hours, the dog stayed by his side. From rock bottom all the way through recovery.

No detail was spared in the video. From the needle going in to the moment the vet said, “he’s gone.” I remember that part vividly, since it was such a foreign experience to me at the time. It would be years before I had a dog of my own, and even more before I’d endure that pain myself. But something about the image of the cyclist in the rain etched itself into my subconscious like a warning.

In the days after I put Forrest down, that picture resurfaced with surprising clarity. I thought about all my friends who’d said goodbye to their dogs. It felt strange to recall that list so immediately, but it arrived all at once. One friend told me, “it’s like a club you don’t want to be a part of.”

Forrest by Dana Cama

If you’re a member of that club, you know the grief has its own distinct color. There’s no sense in weighing it against other losses, as mourning a connection that spans a decade without a single word spoken is its own category entirely.

Once the shock fades and the weakness passes through you, gratitude enters. A recognition of the peaks and valleys of the years you shared, and how different your life would have been without your friend beside you. It feels like discovering an antidote — like you’ve weathered the side effects of countless medications and finally found the one that works.

While I was grateful for every second I had with Forrest, my gratitude sharpens around one particular period. In 2020, I found myself newly single, living alone, and shut inside as the world closed. Most of my friends were newly married or new parents, unwilling to risk even a distanced walk through town. They had everything they needed inside their homes.

It’s almost laughable to scroll through my photos from that year. There wasn’t a single day we weren’t at the beach or running through the woods. There was nothing else to do and no one else to see. Forrest thrived as the world crumbled, and because of him, I was okay. I avoided any major crashes. Feeling okay became my full-time job, and Forrest was the CEO.

My stomach has made its home in my throat for now. When the sun goes down and the lamp in my living room hasn’t turned on yet, I mistake the shadows for Forrest coming around the couch, ready for our afternoon walk. I still bolt from my desk at 3 p.m., remembering I need to give him his medication. I still hear his nails on the floorboards and his steady breathing beside my bed.

It’s hard to recommend an experience this painful, but it’s only this painful because of the beauty that precedes it. I’d still give it a 10 out of 10. If you’re already part of the club no one wants to be in, my heart is with you. And to those who still have their friend by their side…

May all your dogs live forever.