It has been just about a year now. That morning remains seared into my brain. It doesn’t always come up but when it does it comes with the force of a rampaging elephant. His beautiful face looking at me. Fear in his eyes, not just because his nose was bleeding and it was difficult to breathe, but because something was wrong with me. He could tell. He always could tell. Eleven years I had him in my life. From the first moment we met we connected. My now ex-wife decided that she wanted to get another dog while I was in Afghanistan. That would put our number up to three, which I had hesitations about, but in the end, I love dogs too much to say no. So, she got him and named him after my call sign in Afghanistan… Wicked.

I have always said that it was a terrible name for a Pit Bull, even more so for him. It was like calling a big guy Tiny, or so I would tell the story. Wicked was the runt of his litter. Undersized and a little different. He didn’t lick people; he gave human kisses by putting his snout to your cheek for a second. Truth is he rarely did that to other people than me. I remember the first day I met him. I had just gotten off the plane from Afghanistan. I was tired but excited. I said hi to my other two dogs and then went upstairs to the bedroom where he was in his crate. I sat down in front and opened the door. That’s when he came up to me and after sniffing me for a few seconds, lifted his head up and put his snout on my cheek and gave me a kiss. We were inseparable from that moment on.

The thing is, that was a very dark time for me. I was going through a kind of mental collapse. I had been running from my PTSD for almost nine years, at that point, and it had caught up to me. Panic attacks, tremors, cluster headaches. I was losing my mind and trying to find anything that would help. I would come home from a day of constant panic attacks and lay down on the couch and close my eyes. Before I knew it, I would feel him jump up and begin to lay on my chest. And he would just stay there. Calm. All while I was wrestling a storm inside. Soon my heartrate would begin to match his. Slow and rhythmic again.

I remember telling my therapist about this and her then telling me that I had a service dog. At first, I didn’t agree. Not because Wicked wasn’t special, but because I wasn’t “that” broken. But I was. And I need him in my life. I needed his calmness. His compassionate eyes. His playful trot. I needed his reminders for me to take my medication and go to bed. I needed him to pull me away from triggering situations and his help in regulating my emotions. I needed him in more ways than I can put into words… I still do.

His last day is still etched in my mind. He had been losing weight for about a year at that point. I had tried everything to get him to eat, but nothing worked. My 65lb, all muscle and love, was now down to less than 40lbs. Then he started getting weaker. He couldn’t jump up on the bed anymore, so I built him stairs. He couldn’t see the stairs I built when the lights were off, so I added red LEDs to make it easier for him. Throughout all of this I doubted myself. “Am I just refusing to let go? Refusing to acknowledge that it is time for him to go?” I could never answer that question… but I think that’s because I knew the answer but couldn’t say it. I wasn’t ready… I’m still not.

Then one night he started having a nosebleed. I rushed to him and tried to get it to stop. My son looked on, powerless to do anything more than run and get me more towels or a new bag of ice. Eventually the ice slowed down the bleeding and it stopped. I told my son that if it starts bleeding again that we need to rush him to the vet. He understood what that meant. Wicked loved that boy so much. He was always so happy to see him when he came home. He would wag his tail so hard his whole body would move with it. One of Wicked’s favorite spots was to lie on Eric’s bed, in the sun, and just bask. Eric could lie all over him and Wicked never seemed to care. He just enjoyed the snuggles. He loved waiting next to Erics door when it was time to get him up in the morning. I’d open the door, and he’d jump up. Best alarm clock ever.

That night I don’t think Eric and I slept much. But I woke up and there was no blood on the sheets. Wicked was still breathing and he was still asleep. So, I got up and went downstairs, like I had done so many times before. Then an hour or so later I heard Wicked come down the stairs. I turned around to see him and the smile was ripped from my face. His nose was bleeding… A lot. I woke Eric up and told him we needed to go, and I then started calling my vet. They told me that there wouldn’t be any doctors in until 9, it was 15 mins until 8, I couldn’t wait. So, we took him to their sister facility that was only a little bit further. I was driving as fast as I could, my son in the backseat with my best friend trying to control the bleeding. It would stop for a few minutes, but as soon as we stopped at the Vet it started right back up. Now he was even more stressed.

The rest was a blur. I remember the poor vet who came in to tell me that she believed it was aggressive cancer. My soul broke as did her voice when she told me. I looked in his eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes. So much life, but at the same time ready. I just remember croaking out “it’s time.” I had to do what was best for him, and holding on longer than I had would only mean he would get worse. Worse than skin and bones. Worse than covered in his own blood. Worse. And so, they got it ready. He lay in between my son and I. Between the two people he loved the most, and he loved a lot of people. When his heart stopped beating, my heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest. I still hear myself wailing. It echoes in my mind at night.

It is eerie and haunting.

He was everything to me.

My source of strength. My courage. My compassion. My whole being. And just like that he was gone.

I don’t know how long I was there. Everything is a blur. I just remember grabbing his blanket and never wanting to let go. The truth is I never have been able to. I tried to create something in his honor, but didn’t have the skill to do him justice. He always deserved better than me. I sure as hell never deserved him.

So now a year has passed. I still think of him constantly. I still talk to him in my head and write him letters from time to time. My grief is still strong, still very heavy. But I don’t mind it. A young man once said, “Grief is just an expression of unexpressed love.” That rang true then and stands the test of this past year. I miss him dearly. He helped so many people; he helped me rise from the ashes.

The Phoenix is a powerful imagery in the world of trauma. The idea that we can be unmade by events and still rise as a new, powerful, and beautiful creature. To fly high above the devastation we were in. He made that true for me. I owe everything to him and those big beautiful brown eyes.

I miss you buddy. I wish we could have had more time, but I am beyond grateful for the time we had.