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I realize that dogs are right up there with baseball and fly fishing on the list of things that inspire insufferably maudlin writing by men, so I must tread carefully.

But I had to put my dog down on Friday, and I want to just say something about that.

Nobody wants to hear about how my dog was awesome, because dogs are like babies: everyone thinks their own is awesome, and it's an incredibly boring subject to everyone else in the world. 

So, just three things about my dog.  One: he had pretty important symbolic value to us. We got him shortly after we all moved in together, and he, more than the wedding ceremony or anything else, really helped us start to feel like a family.  And now, as we all mourn him together, he's bringing us closer again.  I mean, I know he just wanted to eat and sleep and poop, but this is something he did for us unintentionally, and something he continues to do for us in death, and I appreciate it.

Thing two: he was my friend. I mean, if you define a friend as someone who you wnat to spend time with and someone who brings things out in you that make you like yourself better, then yeah, he was my friend.  I miss him a lot. 

Having lost human family members, I used to kind of roll my eyes at people who grieved the loss of their pets.  But they're family members too. And, as I've discovered, every loss makes you feel every other loss all over again. I had no idea how hard this was going to be for all of us.

Thing the third: My dog had lymphoma.  And his death was really nice.  He was curled up with his head in my lap, he got sedated so he was totally mellowed out, and then he got  the hot shot from the vet and he was gone. Having watched a loved one die from cancer in pain and rasping for breath, I have to say this was way better, and it's kind of crazy that we don't offer this option to people. 

My dog was awesome. His name was Cooper, and he was my friend.