I keep starting this and deleting it. Okay.

Banjo was three. Three years old. I let him out to pee at 6:40am like every morning and by 7:15 we were at the emergency vet and by 8 he was gone. Bloat. GDV, they called it. I’d never even heard the word before that morning and now it’s the only word I know.

Everyone else on grief pages talks about the decision, the appointment, the last day. I didn’t get a last day. I got a Tuesday morning in my pajamas signing forms with a pen that didn’t work.

I know it’s not a competition. But when people say “at least you didn’t have to make the choice” — I would have given anything to make the choice. The choice means you got to say goodbye. I said “be quick, buddy” through the screen door. Those are my last words to my dog. Be quick.

His breakfast was still in the bowl when we got home. I couldn’t throw it out for nine days.