Yanni’s long last walk

There was no mistaking the sound.
Yanni’s back paw dragging across the hard floor as he made his way from the back of the house to my office in the front. I stopped typing so I could hear better. It struck me as odd for he hadn’t been able to make that walk for months.

Yanni, my beloved German Shepherd, had a progressive neurodegenerative disease that was slowly taking away his ability to move. This day would be his last, though I didn’t know it yet.

Yanni was a dog to everyone else. He was never just a dog to me. I saw him as my sidekick, my rock. He was granted to me by a divine power at a time when I needed him most. After my divorce, we moved to Baton Rouge together, both of us beginning a new phase in our lives.

When a bond carries that much weight, it stops being about the animal itself and becomes about presence, love, and companionship. It’s a truth others have discovered through a lifetime of connection. Jane Goodall, the world-famous scientist and conservationist, was once asked by a presumptive reporter if her favorite animal was the chimpanzee.

“Chimpanzees are too much like humans. My favorite animals are dogs. They show unconditional love. They do not have the human capacity for cruelty. They bring out our compassion. They give without expecting anything in return.”

Every morning, Yanni and I would load up in my 4Runner (my backyard was too small for him to stretch his legs) and head to a nearby open field for our daily walks. Sometimes we went twice a day. I estimate that over the last three years alone, Yanni and I rode in the car more than 1,200 times for those cathartic walks. I needed them just as much as he did. Because I worked mostly from home, we were constant companions. We were at each other’s side day and night, even sleeping in the same bed. When I sat at my desk, he lay at my feet. When I took a shower, he rested against the shower door. His mood mirrored mine. He could sense my emotions always seeming to know what I needed. He was so smart. He read me like a book. His dark eyes showed love. Tenderness.

He knew many words, and I would talk to him as if we were having a conversation. Somehow, he seemed to understand. Others might have called us crazy. It didn’t matter. We had each other.

About a year and a half ago, I noticed that he began ever so slightly dragging his back right paw. It seemed odd at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. A later vet visit confirmed what I feared: a degenerative disease with no cure. The news devastated me. Yanni had always been happiest using his legs while running after tennis balls and walking long distances by my side.

As the disease progressed, the subtle drag became more pronounced, turning into an awkward hop. Our walks slowly shortened from two miles, to one, to a half, to two hundred meters, and finally to simply sitting together beneath a large oak tree. Watching him struggle, I felt helpless and sad. Yet he would always look at me with eyes that said he was okay, as long as he was with me. In the final six months of his life, his back legs were nearly completely paralyzed. I ordered a support strap that wrapped around his waist so I could help carry his back end while he walked using his front legs. I enjoyed being of service to him, and he seemed to love being of service to me.

On the last day of his life, I heard him struggling to come to me in my office. He worked his way down the hall, and when he finally saw me, his head lowered. He gave me that familiar dog smile and gently wagged his tail. I stood up, wrapped him in the biggest hug, and congratulated him for making it. That long walk to me is something I will never forget.

Later that morning, we had a scheduled vet appointment. We made it, and the recommendation I had been dreading was given. We had to say goodbye. As the vet administered the fatal dose, I held Yanni’s head so he could look into my eyes. He was calm. He was at peace. The last thing Yanni saw as he left this world was my gaze.  It was fixed on him with all the love I could muster.  I spread his ashes under the oak tree we used to sit.

I know that in his final months I did everything I could to help him. But in reflection, it feels small compared to everything he did to help me.

What we have once enjoyed, we can never lose; all that we have loved deeply, becomes a part of us.”

- Helen Keller