09/12/2026
We bid our best good old boy Oz farewell this morning.
Life sometimes quietly aligns itself to make the impossibly difficult a little easier, even when you don't see it coming as quickly as it does. I think thatās what happened with Oz, and it started aligning days, maybe weeks ago.
We knew Oz was declining. Slowly, but unmistakably. His energy, mobility, and appetite were fading, and Richard and I had already started the conversation neither of us wanted to have. I'd booked him a vet appointment, hoping there was still something we could do to support our old boy.
Then Solo got dangerously sick, very quickly. Followed by Ocean. We did everything necessary to get them stable and turned our focus back to Oz, who was showing similar symptoms by then. An accidental diarrhetic episode two nights ago gave us the f***l sample to send for testing, and at the vet the next day, we agreed that collaborating between them and home still gave Oz the best care without the stress of an unfamiliar hospital. Alignment.
We booked an ultrasound to ensure we werenāt missing anything, and he spent yesterday on IV fluids with a caring team that's known him for years. Hence the smiling face you saw in the last post. His panel confirmed canine circovirus; the ultrasound results would be returned today. I brought him home when they closed, so he'd be where he belongs. Alignment.
Last night, Oz had bouts of bloody diarrhea that essentially just came out of him without him knowing. The smell was more than sickness; it suggested something worse was impending. Richard and I stayed close, cleaning up, comforting him, and quietly realizing how fast this was escalating.
This morning I drove Oz back to the vet for more fluids as we had planned, but a very different conversation was already sitting like a lump in my throat. As it turns out, Ozās ultrasound showed an anomaly in his small intestine that was significant enough to be concerning. Maybe cancer, maybe some preexisting condition that the virus had accelerated and was causing perforation. So Ozās situation was unique to him, not because of one particular condition, but a culmination of several. And it was terminal.
Maybe I learned this while supporting Mom in her final days, or during Breeze's fight with myasthenia gravis: at some point you realize further intervention wonāt provide the outcome you desperately want. The fluids, antibiotics, probiotics, pain meds, emergency surgery, holistic or medical alternatives only become invasive and translate into suffering. And you have to hope you have enough strength and grace to accept it at the right time.
I brought Oz back, where Richard was watching the rest of the pack because he didnāt have to work until later today. Alignment. We drove Oz toward the back of our property and parked on the high point, opened the hatch, and sat with him while he lifted his nose to smell the countryside, perked his ears to hear the sounds of late summer, and took in everything that was home to him. We fed him liver treats ā the only thing he would eat these past three days ā and told him everything he already knew and understood.
Grief can be blinding, but it can also reveal moments of remarkable clarity. While Richard and I sat with our old boy, rubbing his belly, scratching his ears, talking to him about everything and nothing, Oz made eye contact with each of us. I watched Oz gaze into Richardās eyes while Richard cradled his chin and praised him. And he looked into mine. Not a glance, but a deliberate stare. After almost 14 years of companionship, with several of the early years just him and me, it told me he knew, and he was good with it. It was time.
So, my golden one, our little lion-hearted Oz, who gave us the gift of his special soul every day for so long, gave a final gift to the pack ā his pack ā by showing us the circovirus we were battling against, which gave us a targeted approach and the best chance to help his pack mates. Then he showed us that his body was failing more than he had ever let on. Alignment.
Richard and I both went to the vet, and in the back of the car, where he enjoyed so many rides, Richard held his head so he could feel the sun on his face, and I rubbed his favourite place on his chest as he fell asleep for the last time. And then I took him for one last car ride to the pet crematorium. Oz, I know youāll still be with us, watching over the homestead from the vantage point you sat at so many times over the years, but my God, Richard and I will miss you and everything you were to us from this day forward. We love you, old boy.
