Koda was just a dog.

In 2004, I adopted a puppy from “Pet Rescue by Judy” while still in the post-emotional slipstream of a divorce. His litter name was Maine, but it changed to Koda as the only Disney name my youngest daughter and I agreed on.

Divorce is a lonely business, and you don’t ask your children for help because that would mean taking sides. Many times, a hug from that stupid dog was the only emotional support I had. I’d cry; I’d hug him; he’d let me. Sometimes he’d just come over and offer.

Stupid dog.

A few months later I bought a house at the height of the real estate bubble – a fixer-upper so when real estate values fell I wouldn’t lose money. Koda moved in with me, prices fell more than expected, I fixed up less than hoped, and 13 years later I own a house that has never been without Koda inside. And now he’s gone.

Stupid dog.

Koda slept in my shower, a double-wide walk-in that must have made him feel protected. It also made his sleeping area easy to clean up, and on those rare occasions when the doors were shut, I felt guilty for locking him out of “his house.”

Stupid dog.

Koda protected the yard. He’d knew “our cats” and would chase “their cats.” He loved nothing more than breaking up a fight and, like any good protector, he’d lie by the pool when outside with one eye on us and one eye for wandering wildlife.

But more than anything, Koda was my dog. He loved my mother, my daughters, my son. But when a gang of us walked into the house, he’d nose past everyone to get to me. Our bond seemed more than affection, and I swear he could read my mind. I gave no indication that it was time for a walk until I was ready to go, for example, because he’d start bouncing off the walls. Without the slightest “we’re going for a walk” gesture from me, he just knew. Did my smell change? Maybe. But his insights sometimes scared me.

Stupid dog.

Koda often traveled to my home town in Pennsylvania, riding uneasily in the back seat of the car. I spent two months there waiting for my father to die and eventually doing bed care, and Koda was the one “person” I could simply hug to melt some of the stress away.

When I spent three months clearing out the family home a few years later – the one I was born in and visited for 60 years – Koda provided support as I waded through my own early years, my family’s early years, and four generations of ancestors whose papers and history ended up in my parent’s attic. How many times did a hug from Koda make me feel better? How many tears soaked into his coat? How many times did he walk over as if he wanted to be petted, when what he really wanted was to touch and be touched knowing we both needed it?

Toward the end he started walking funny, his back legs taking an extra second to do what his brain told them to do. Until that moment – until I Googled “average dog age” – I had no idea he was old. His father, a Bernese, lived an average 8-9 years. His mother, a lab, lived an average 11-12 years. Koda was over 13.

How did he get old? How and when did that puppy become an old dog?

Eventually his walking became painful to watch. Eventually the drugs made him feel better but not get better. Eventually the drugs didn’t help as much. Eventually it was clear he’d never again be the puppy I hugged after some long-forgotten divorce.

And one day, yesterday, we made that final trip to the vet and I left a lifeless no-longer-Koda body and walked out.

When will I stop expecting him to greet me when I come home? When will I stop making a mental note of his location before turning on the vacuum cleaner? When will I stop glancing to see if his food bowl needs refilled? When will I start shutting the shower doors since Koda will never again sleep inside?

Stupid dog.

I love him, and the missing-Koda pain feels as if it will never go away.

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