Eighth grade was a difficult time. I had teachers I didn’t like, not many friends in my classes, didn’t get the right electives; I’m so glad it’s over. I wasted away my summer doing stuff that any young boy would do, hang out with friends, play my trombone, run around with my dog, Yukon (a husky mixed with bouvier so he could sit on me and immobilize me if he really wanted), sit around the bonfire on cool nights, and play video games to the point where my mom was concerned about my brain turning into mush. It was an amazing summer so far, and it didn’t look like that would change anytime soon.

It was about two weeks before my first day of high school, when I was sitting in the living room, watching T.V. on the couch, with Yukon laying across my legs.

My mom walks in and tells me, “You really should think about emptying your backpack and prepare for school. It’s coming up faster than you’d expect!”

“Alright Mom, I’ll do that later today. I’m gonna burn my paperwork tonight by the fire.”

Burning all of my notes and homework from the last school year is my favorite thing to do in preparation for the next year. I’ve done it for the past two years before this, and it’s an easy way to relax, just tossing paper into the fire and watching it change color and fly into the air like little wisps, dancing in the night.

I collect the papers I prepared ahead of time, and head to the fire with my sister and Yukon. I uncover a lawn chair, set it up, and start tossing in a couple papers at a time. The bright flash every time a sheet first catches puts me in a trance, and my dog seems to enjoy the warmth from the fireplace.

My nose itches from the intense plume of smoke that slaps my face when i put too many papers in at once.

I’m about halfway through the bag of paper, when Yukon starts whining louder than I’ve ever heard. I look down, and he’s writhing in pain, not able to move. I start screaming for help, since I wouldn’t dare leave his side right now. My parents come outside to see what’s happening.

“What’s going on? What happened?” Mom says.

“I-I-I don’t know! I was just tossing papers into the fire, and Yukon rolled over and started yelping!” I respond through tears.

We all know that we have to get him to the vet immediately. We lift him on a board into the back of our truck (go figure, it’s a GMC Yukon) and start speeding down the road. The entire way there, I’m trying to comfort him through his pain, even though I know I’m not doing much to help. We arrive and I help carry him in and I watch them take him back.

About fifteen minutes have gone by when the vet comes out to give us the synopsis.

“Yukon has just ruptured a tumor in his abdomen, and is bleeding out into his stomach” she said. “We can go through with surgery right now, but there’s a seventy percent chance that this tumor is cancerous, and will return within the next six months.”

My parents look at each other, they both know the decision that needs to be made.

We all head into the back room, and see our beloved pet on the table, hooked up to a drip to stabilize him. I can’t help but burst into tears. I couldn’t bear to see him like this. He lifts his head off of the table a little, so he can see me, and his tail begins to softly wag. He couldn’t stop himself, but it looked like it was hurting him. I wrap my arms around his soft body, and sob even harder.

The vet has us say our goodbyes while she prepares the syringes. We all gather around, and pet him to try and comfort him in his final moments. She comes back with the shots in hand, and lays them on her tray. I stare at her picking up the needle and inserting it into his front left leg. She places the syringe at the end of the tube, and starts flexing her thumb. The blue fluid shoots through the tube, and I know by now that it’s too late to change our mind. His breaths become more and more spaced out, until they ultimately stop.

I can’t take anymore and run from the room, tears pouring from my eyes. Laying in the backseat of the car, I lose all sight of reason and bawl until I can’t anymore. After a couple minutes of intense distress, my parents and sister come back to the car with dead looks on their faces.

My mom hands me a stone tile. I turn on the light and I see that it’s imprinted with his name and paw print. I hug it tightly the entire way home.

Until this point I didn’t know what death meant. I understood what it was, but not how it affected people. Seeing him go was my first experience with a loved one passing, and it’s made me less sensitive to the topic. It taught me how to better handle my emotions in times of severe distress.

All of this happened just over three years ago, but Yukon still made a huge impact on me and my family. We have pictures of him next to his paw print on our shelf.

Whenever I mow the lawn, I pass by where we buried him, and think about how much he meant to us.