Apollo

You never really know what you have until it’s gone.

Just two days ago, we lost a dear member of our family. His name was Apollo. He was my dad’s dog, and he was an angel.

Despite being a Weimaraner, he was very mellow. A big dog that would intimidate new guests, but a teddy bear through and through. He was a big softie that we tried our best to spoil rotten. Though he did feel entitled to share our fries and made sure we paid the cheese tax whenever possible, he was polite about it. He’d sit and wait, then scarf down his treats with gusto. We didn’t mind the drool… most of the time.

He stuck by my dad’s side from the moment we took him home. He fell asleep in his arms the first time they met. He would bark and howl whenever he came home from work, and sniffle and whine whenever he left. They would walk the edge of the property together, check on the chickens and rabbits, and take long rides in the truck at sunset. At night, he would climb into bed and make himself comfortable between my dad and my mom, usually stretching out as if he wanted to push Mom out of the way.

Some nights, he would join my dad outside, stargazing and listening to the crackle of the fire pit. His dog, his best buddy, stuck by my father’s side, even when cancer pinned him to his death bed.

After the funeral, Apollo lingered in the house with us. He stuck by Mom more than anyone, but nowhere near as closely as he did Dad.

He stuck with us through ups and downs, through another dog, another cat, and even had his own cancer scare. His body got older, his joints aching and his eyes fogging up a little more each day. He never stopped being a puppy on the inside, though. Even on that last day, on the way to the vet, he wagged his tail and looked at us with that doofy smile he always had.

I think he knew what was happening. He just didn’t want us to be too sad about it. He hid his pain well, just like Dad did.

I miss you, buddy. I always will.