My whole life, from the time I was eight months old to three days after my fifteenth birthday, my life was like a cheesy kid’s movie. I grew up with a dog. My mom got him from our neighbor when he was a month old. He was the skinniest, ugliest dog she had ever seen. I was terrified of the dog, and it’s safe to say he was also terrified of me. After a few short months, we finally got used to each other and became best friends.

For 15 years Boomer and I did everything together. From our trips to the river, to listening to his howling when the fire whistle went off, to giving him treats and putting a blanket over his head and watching him wander around clueless. He was so protective. I remember one time he bit the boy who was mowing our grass because he felt that the boy was a danger, but after that my mom invited the boy to dinner, and Boomer cuddled up against his leg to apologize.

One day Boomer started to act sick. He was always sleeping and never wanted to play with me anymore. He was extra grouchy too, never letting anyone besides family touch him. About a year after that he could barely walk. He couldn’t control his bladder, and we had to keep him in our basement because he was too weak to even walk outside onto the porch.

My mom finally said to me, “I think it’s time we do what’s best for Boomer.” As much as I hated to admit, I knew it was time. On February 24th, 2015, we took Boomer to the vet.

I remember him lying on the metal bed. He didn’t fit on it, so I had to hold his head up. The vet gave him a shot and left the room, and my mom said, “He can still hear you.”

    Boomer died in my hands, and as I cried, I knew that he would soon be out of his misery and in a better place.