This is Mojo

This is my dog. His name is Mojo, he's an Aussie-Akita mix, and is about fourteen- almost fifteen years old.

As of today, Mojo can no longer stand by himself. My dad had to carry him outside, and help him stand up four times just so he could piss.

Tomorrow, I'm canceling my classes. I'm going to the vet with dad. There's a small chance that he might be okay, and a steroid shot in his hip would do him a world of good, but... Otherwise... Well, it might be Mojo's last day...

This dog means everything to me. He's the closest thing I've ever had to a brother, and has been there for me since I was three years old- further back than I can even remember.

When I was younger, much younger, and of course, didn't quite understand the value of a pet, I never really spent much time with him... In fact, I remember once closing the door on his face as he was running to come inside- he hit that door hard... It's the single most regretful thing I've ever done.

I can't even quite remember when, but at some point, I really started to care more about Mojo... I really started to appreciate him more. Suddenly, he was my world. He always seemed like such a great listener, and he always knew when you were upset... He was sympathetic... He'd know you were upset, come and lay his head on your lap, or just stay nearby. It's so therapeutic, just knowing that someone's there, that someone cares... Especially a dog. They can't listen to your sob story and sympathize with you on that alone, they just KNOW... And they let you know they're there for you...

I'll be crying a lot tomorrow... I don't know what I expect from anyone here, if anything, but I just need someone to know, like Mojo always did, what this means to me... This would be the first death in the family that I've ever actually cared about, and it's the most painful thing I've ever had to endure... I'm not sure I can even look at him, but I have to be there when he goes- if he goes... And even if he's around for another year or so with a steroid shot in his hip, there's still gonna be that inevitability hanging over my head... I'd end up forgetting about the whole thing after eight or nine months, and then it'd just hit me like a brick wall once I realize he can't stand by himself again...

I don't know how I'm going to deal with this... Candy, lots and lots of candy, and other fattening shit... A dark, overheated room, crying, frequent naps... I don't know...

I love him so much...

that sucks... I have had a cat named milo since I was six... he's the same age as your dog... he's still kicking but we almost lost him last week... So I can sympathize... he may have hip dysplasia... which can happen with old age... or maybe severe arthritis... it might be simple as giving him some pain meds... so good luck

Well, it is one of the most simplest facts of life, after all. What lives eventually must die, and as morbid as it sounds, you should embrace that pain you feel. That pain is proof of how important this creature is to you.

Personally, as much as I abhor sentimental behavior, since they are almost always petty self-fulfilling actions that involve making the deceased out to be something of a saint or demi-god, I keep the phone number of a certain friend of mine in my cell phone. A friend I knew since I was about eight. She had some type of severe heart condition, I never learned all the details since it is not exactly a topic you just bring up, but at her eulogy I learned it was so bad she was almost pronounced a stillborn. She managed to live for 19 years like this, pacemaker and everything, until the body finally surrendered. I'll spare you the details, as this is obviously your topic about your dog, not about my friend.

The phone number is obviously disconnected, if I were to call it I would simply get dead air or a "Cannot be found" message returned, but it is my minor way of always remembering her. Considering what a text message whore I am, it's not at all a rare event for me to open my phones address book to find the number to send the message to, and I always end up scrolling past her name, complete with a memory hitting me like a freighter almost every time.

The point to that tangent is that even though it has been nearly three years ago, it still hurts. Almost 1095 days have passed, and there will still be times where someone will mention how awesome it would be if she was still here. And it should hurt. It is the duty of the living to always remember those close to you who no longer live, it is the very least we can do. You'll get through it because you have no choice in the matter, you can kick and scream at death, or you can accept it for the eternal embrace of nothingness and let your dog's final image be its master holding it as it takes its final, quiet rest, to get into the really fucking creepy pseudo-poet mode. Because I will tell you this much. My father's Rottweiler had the exact same condition, his hips were giving out on him during his final years, to the point where he simply could not move from where he lay. He was put to sleep on that day he could not move, there was nothing that could be done for him. I hope this is not the case with your dog, but I am saying the likelihood is going to be a slim one.

Do not dwell on the could have/should haves or the things your regret, you will just be tearing yourself apart doing so. What you should always hold with you are the times that made this particular death so unbearably difficult to take, the times that caused you so much apparent happiness.

Shiki, you're kind of an asshole sometimes, but I'll be damned if that wasn't the most helpful thing anyone's said to me all year, let alone all day.

I'm so sorry to hear about your dog, Chris. I wish I had something helpful to say, but I still dwell on deaths that happened years ago, myself. Just remember to think of the good memories, which I'm sure there are many of.

Mojo has a great life and going by your descriptions of him, he's well cared for. Instead of thinking about things you didn't do for him, focus on the things that you guys did together. Dogs live in the moment; as long as you're there for him NOW, that's what matters to him.

He seems like such an amazing dog, I'm glad he has a good home.

Letting go is easier than you may think, even if it is painful.

From August 1997 to June 2008, I lived next to the kindest and most wonderful man ever, Frank Yukich. He helped my family and I in numerous ways, and was dependably there.

We forged a great friendship, he and I. We talked about everything while I'd sit on his porch, on a chair with a WWII parachute he'd kept. He gave me an allowance, and I helped him out around the house.

I grew to love him more than I do any of my old grandparents.

He was 95 when he died, a very sudden death. I found out he was in the hospital, and less than two weeks later I was at his church, sitting on the pew, listening to a priest speak about a man who had donated thousands of dollars to his church, and the priest knew nothing.

I cried that day, out of emotion, for the first time in over three years.

Over these months, I have randomly missed him, and it does hurt, but I've always remembered to celebrate the person he was instead of mourning that he's not here, I don't think about what he would do, instead, I think about what he did do, not what he would say, but what he did say.

I find solace in using everything he's taught me in life as much as I can, so I don't feel like his contributions in my life will end at his passing.


So celebrate Mojo's memory, don't mourn it, and certainly don't cling to it if it will cause you more pain than just letting it come to you when the time is appropriate.

As it currently stands, Mojo's alive. That slim chance might come through for once.

The vet thinks it might be arthritis, and we're trying him on a few different meds for the weekend. If he doesn't improve by then, though, well... We all know what'll happen. Cross your fingers.

well thats good, i'm glad he has a chance!