Slick

Slick was originally my wife Nancy’s and my stepson’s dog. Over the years, life brought changes and losses that none of us could have expected, and eventually Slick became part of my everyday life. After Nancy passed away, he became much more than a dog who lived in my home. He stayed close to me through one of the hardest times of my life and became my constant companion. I thought I was taking care of Slick, but looking back, I realize that in many ways he was taking care of me too.

I don't have one particular memory of our first days together that stands out. Slick was already part of the family, and our relationship grew over time. I don't think I could have known then just how important he would eventually become to me. What started as simply having Slick in my life became a bond I would come to depend on more than I ever expected. Years later, after losing Nancy, he would become my rock and one of the reasons I kept putting one foot in front of the other.

Slick had a personality all his own. He didn't have a tail, but when he got excited, he would wag his whole backend like he had one. He loved being close to me and was happiest when he could be right there beside me or sitting on my lap. As he got older and could no longer hear, that closeness seemed to matter even more. Slick had also experienced a lot of loss in his life, yet somehow he never stopped trusting and loving. He kept attaching himself to the people around him and simply kept going. I didn't fully understand it while he was here, but that may have been the most remarkable thing about him. Slick knew how to keep loving after loss.

Slick didn't have a tail, but nobody ever told him that he couldn't wag one. When he got excited, his whole backend would start wagging back and forth. It always made me smile. He also had a way of wanting to be right there with me—on my lap, beside my feet, or wherever I happened to be. Sometimes it wasn't anything he did at all. Just looking down and seeing Slick there was enough to make me smile.

Slick loved going for car rides, curling up in his bed, and playing with the other pets in the house. But more than anything, he seemed to love simply being part of whatever was going on. He didn't need anything extraordinary to be happy. A ride in the car, a comfortable place to rest, some time with the other animals, and being close to the people he loved seemed to be enough for him. Those ordinary things were a big part of what made life with Slick so special.

Some of my favorite memories are really the ordinary moments we shared. Slick loved riding in the car, and I enjoyed having him along with me. I remember him playing with the other pets, relaxing in his bed, sitting on my lap, and simply staying close to me.

After Nancy died, those ordinary moments became much more important. Slick was there during the quiet times when the house felt different and life had changed completely. Later, when I began studying to become a hospice chaplain, he would sit on my lap while I studied. I thought I was preparing myself to learn how to be there for people who were grieving, but all the while Slick was showing me something about that very thing. He didn't have to fix anything. He simply stayed.

Looking back, some of my favorite memories aren't about anything extraordinary that happened. They're about having Slick there beside me. I didn't realize at the time how precious those ordinary moments would become.

The ordinary moments became some of the most meaningful. Slick liked being wherever I was. He would sit on my lap, stay near my feet, ride along in the car, or simply settle into his bed knowing I was nearby. After Nancy died, having him there became part of how I made it through each day.

One routine that became especially meaningful was having Slick on my lap while I studied to become a hospice chaplain. I was learning about grief, loss, and how to be present with people who are hurting, while this little dog who had experienced so much loss himself was quietly sitting there with me. I didn't recognize the lesson at the time. Looking back, I do.

Slick taught me that presence doesn't always need words and it doesn't have to fix anything. Sometimes love simply stays.

Slick seemed happiest when he was close to the people and animals he loved. He enjoyed his bed and loved going for car rides, but he especially liked being near me. Whether he was sitting on my lap, lying beside my feet, or simply resting nearby, he seemed content just knowing we were together. Home for Slick wasn't really one particular place. It was being close to those he loved.

Slick became my rock. After my wife Nancy died, he was there through some of the hardest and loneliest days of my life. He couldn't change what had happened or take away the grief, but he stayed close to me, and sometimes that was exactly what I needed.

I thought I was taking care of Slick, but I eventually realized that he was taking care of me too. He had already experienced so much loss in his own life, yet he kept living, trusting, and loving. Without realizing it, I was learning from him.

Slick was my companion, my comfort, and in many ways one of my teachers. He taught me something I now carry into my work as a hospice chaplain: you don't always have to know what to say. Sometimes love simply stays.

I will always miss my rock, but I will also always be grateful that Slick was part of my life.

After my wife Nancy died in October of 2024, Slick became my rock. The house was different, my life was different, and I was trying to learn how to live with a loss I never wanted. Slick couldn't take that grief away, but he stayed with me through it.

He slept with me, sat on my lap, stayed close when I was hurting, and gave me companionship during some very lonely days. When I cried, he was there. There were no words and nothing he could do to fix what had happened, but he didn't need to fix it. His presence mattered.

Later I realized that Slick understood something about loss in his own way. He had experienced the loss of three owners and his brother Scruffy, yet he continued to live, trust, attach, and love. While I was grieving Nancy, I thought I was the one taking care of Slick. Looking back, I realize Slick was helping teach me how to keep living too.

He couldn't bring Nancy back. He couldn't make the grief disappear. He simply stayed. And sometimes, that is exactly what love needs to do.

Slick taught me that life can continue after loss without forgetting those we have lost. He had experienced more loss than any little dog should have had to endure. He lost three owners and his brother Scruffy, yet he never stopped trusting. He never stopped forming relationships. He never stopped loving.

After Nancy died, I was trying to figure out how to keep living when such an important part of my life was gone. All that time, Slick was quietly showing me. You keep going. You allow yourself to love. You stay close to those who are still here.

He also taught me about the ministry of presence. Later, as I studied to become a hospice chaplain, Slick would sit on my lap. I was studying how to help people through grief while one of my greatest teachers was sitting right there. Slick couldn't explain grief or offer advice. He simply stayed.

I thought I was taking care of him. It took losing him for me to fully understand how much he had been taking care of me and teaching me.

You don't always have to know what to say. Sometimes love simply stays.

I believe I gave Slick a home where he was loved, cared for, and knew that he belonged. After everything he had experienced in his life, I hope I gave him security and the comfort of knowing that someone would be there for him. I gave him my lap, a place beside me, car rides he enjoyed, other animals to play with, and a family to be part of right through the end of his life.

What Slick gave me is harder to measure. He gave me companionship when I was lonely, comfort when I was grieving, and a reason to keep moving forward when life had changed so much. He gave me his trust and his presence.

I think I gave Slick a place to spend the final chapter of his life knowing he was loved. And Slick gave me something I didn't realize I needed so desperately: a faithful friend who stayed beside me while I learned how to live after loss.

In the end, I don't think either of us simply took care of the other. We took care of each other.

What I miss most is his presence. I miss looking down and seeing Slick beside my feet. I miss having him on my lap. I miss him sleeping with me and knowing that wherever I was in the house, he probably wasn't very far away.

I miss the little things too—his whole backend wagging when he got excited, taking him for car rides, watching him with the other pets, and simply knowing he was there.

After Nancy died, Slick became such a constant part of my life that I don't think I fully understood how much space his presence filled until he was gone. He was my rock during a time when I desperately needed one.

I don't just miss the things Slick did. I miss Slick being there.

Life without my rock will go on. But he will be greatly missed.

So many ordinary things still make me think of Slick. An empty place beside my feet reminds me of where he used to lie. Sitting down without him climbing onto my lap reminds me that he's gone. Getting into the car can make me think about how much he enjoyed going for rides.

I think of him when I see the other pets too. Slick was part of their lives just as much as he was part of mine, and the house feels different without him in it.

Sometimes I think of him when I'm studying or thinking about my work as a hospice chaplain, because he was there on my lap during so much of that journey. And whenever I think about what it means simply to be present for someone who is hurting, I think of Slick.

There probably isn't just one thing that reminds me of him. He was woven into the ordinary parts of my life, so the ordinary parts of life still carry reminders of him.

I will carry Slick's example with me. He experienced loss again and again, but he never stopped living, trusting, or loving. Somehow, that little dog kept opening his heart to whoever was still there.

I want to carry that with me. I want to remember that continuing to live doesn't mean leaving behind those we have lost. Loving again doesn't replace the ones who came before. We carry their love forward with us.

I will also carry what Slick taught me about simply being present. He couldn't fix my grief after Nancy died. He didn't need to. He stayed beside me. That lesson will follow me into my work as a hospice chaplain and into the way I try to care for people who are hurting.

Slick left paw prints on much more than the floor. He left them on my heart, and those are the ones that won't disappear.

I will carry my little friend's lesson with me for the rest of my life: keep living, keep trusting, and keep loving.

Slick's final season was difficult because I could see that age was catching up with him. He was about seventeen years old. He could no longer hear, and his body was beginning to fail him, but he was still Slick. He still wanted to be close to me, and I treasured that time with him.

Near the end, he stopped eating. For three days he wouldn't eat, and during the night he woke me crying and struggling to stand. I knew the decision I had been dreading was becoming one I could no longer make based on how badly I wanted him to stay. I had to make it based on what was kindest for him.

On September 7, 2026, I made the painful decision to let Slick go peacefully. Sometimes love asks us to hurt so that the one we love no longer has to.

I brought him home and buried him beside Scruffy, the little dog who had shared so much of his life. Slick was buried with his collar, just as Scruffy had been.

That night, I told Slick goodnight. And, as I had done so many times before, I gave him one last set of orders: take care of Nancy and my stepson until I see them again.

I don't want Slick's final days to become the story of his life. His death was one day in his story. There were nearly seventeen years before it—years of companionship, car rides, playing, sleeping comfortably in his bed, staying close, surviving loss, and continuing to love.

That is the Slick I want to remember.

Yes. The hardest decision I had to make for Slick was deciding when it was time to let him go.

He hadn't eaten for three days. During the night he woke me crying and struggling to stand. I wanted more time with him—I wasn't ready for life without him—but I had to ask myself whether keeping him with me was for Slick or for me.

I loved him enough to recognize that there came a point when asking him to stay would have meant asking him to keep suffering because I wasn't ready to say goodbye.

On September 7, 2026, I made the decision to have Slick peacefully euthanized. It hurt terribly, and I knew it would. But sometimes we choose to hurt so that they no longer have to.

Letting Slick go wasn't giving up on him. It was one final way of taking care of him.

I would have gladly carried the pain if it meant he didn't have to carry his anymore.

There are things about Slick's final day that I never want to forget. After he died, I brought him home. I buried him beside Scruffy, where I felt he belonged. I buried Slick with his collar, just as Scruffy had been buried with his.

That evening, knowing he was out there beside his brother was painful, but there was also something comforting about having brought him home.

Before the night was over, I did something that probably wouldn't mean much to anyone who didn't know our relationship. I told Slick goodnight, and I gave him orders one more time. I told him to take care of Nancy and my stepson until I see them again.

I don't know everything about what comes after this life, and I won't pretend that I do. But those words came from love, hope, and a heart that wasn't quite ready to stop talking to my little friend.

What I want remembered most about Slick's goodbye is that he was loved all the way through it. I brought him home, laid him beside his brother, said goodnight, and entrusted him to God.

His death was one day in his story. Love had filled all the days that came before it.

Yes. My faith was very much a part of the way I loved and cared for Slick, especially at the end of his life.

I believe the animals God places in our lives are gifts entrusted to our care. Loving Slick meant enjoying the good years with him, caring for him as he grew older, and eventually making a decision I desperately wished I didn't have to make.

When his body began to fail and I knew he was suffering, my faith didn't make saying goodbye easy. But it helped me understand that love sometimes asks us to put the needs of the one we love ahead of our own desire to keep them with us.

After Slick died, I brought him home and buried him beside Scruffy. That night I told him goodnight and told him to take care of Nancy and my stepson until I see them again. I don't claim to know everything God has chosen not to tell us about eternity and the animals we have loved. But I do trust God's goodness, and I believe it is all right to hold hope where Scripture leaves room for hope.

In the end, I entrusted Slick to the same God who had allowed this little dog to become such an important part of my life. My faith doesn't erase the grief of losing him. It gives me hope as I carry his love forward.

There are questions about animals and eternity that I cannot answer with certainty, and I don't believe faith requires me to pretend otherwise. Scripture tells me enough about God to trust His goodness, His love, and His care for everything He has created.

So when I think about Slick, I choose to place the questions I cannot answer into God's hands.

On the night I buried Slick beside Scruffy, I told him goodnight and told him to take care of Nancy and my stepson until I see them again. I can't prove that Slick heard those words or that things happen exactly the way my grieving heart hopes they do. But I believe God understood what was behind them.

They were words of love, faith, and hope.

I entrusted Slick to God then, and I still do. Whatever eternity holds for the animals who have shared our lives, I trust that God is good. And I am comfortable leaving Slick in His hands.

I still hope that goodbye was not forever.

I would want them to understand that Slick was a little dog who experienced tremendous loss and somehow never stopped loving.

He lost three owners and his brother Scruffy. Yet he kept trusting, kept forming relationships, and kept giving his heart to the people who were still there. After my wife Nancy died, Slick became my rock. At a time when I was learning how to live after loss, I didn't realize that this little dog who had already survived so much was quietly showing me how.

Slick taught me that continuing to live doesn't mean forgetting those we have lost. Loving again doesn't replace anyone who came before. Somehow, we carry that love with us and keep going.

If someone who never met Slick remembers only one thing about him, I hope it is this:

He survived loss. He kept loving. And without realizing it, he taught me to do the same.

There is one more part of Slick's story that matters to me. After he was gone, I realized that I wasn't the only one who felt his absence. Sandy searched for him and then stayed close to me. Glory and Camo wanted to be held. One of the cats even had the opportunity to see Slick after he died.

It reminded me that Slick wasn't simply my dog. He was part of a family. The other animals had relationships with him too, and in their own ways they seemed to recognize that something had changed.

In the days afterward, when I cried, they were there. In a strange way, it felt like the lesson Slick had taught me was continuing through them: when someone you love is hurting, you don't always need to know what to do. Sometimes you simply stay.

Slick's life also changed the way I understand grief and the way I hope to serve others. His story will travel with me into my work as a hospice chaplain and into the way I respond to people grieving both human and animal companions.

Slick was a small dog, but the space he occupied in my life was anything but small. His death was one day in his story. The love he gave is what I want to carry forward.

Slick, I hope somehow you knew how much I loved you and how much you meant to me.

When Nancy died, you became my rock. You stayed beside me through days when I didn't know how I was going to keep moving forward. I thought I was taking care of you, but now I understand that you were taking care of me too.

You taught me more than I realized while you were here. You had known loss yourself, yet you kept living, trusting, and loving. I'm going to try to do the same.

I miss seeing you beside my feet. I miss you on my lap. I miss your whole backend wagging when you were excited. I miss having you there when I go to bed at night. Most of all, I simply miss you.

I hope you know that when I made that final decision, I didn't do it because I wanted to let you go. I did it because I loved you enough not to ask you to hurt just so I could have more time.

I brought you home and put you beside Scruffy. And that night, I told you goodnight and gave you orders one last time. So I'll tell you again:

Take care of Nancy and my stepson until I see you again.

Thank you for staying with me when I needed you. Thank you for being my rock. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes love doesn't need words or answers. Sometimes love simply stays.

Goodnight, Slick. I love you, little buddy.

Your death was one day in your story. Your paw prints will remain on my heart for the rest of mine.