This Is The Last Dog We’ll Ever Own. Here’s What He’s Taught Me About Love.

My husband, Stu, was ready to downsize five years ago. It took me longer to come around, but I’m ready too. Mostly. Because before we can sell our house and embrace a simpler lifestyle, we’ll have to let go of a lot — and I don’t just mean our accumulation of household “stuff.” We can’t cross that bridge until our dog crosses the Rainbow Bridge. The thought alone floods me with grief.

Chase is a German shepherd-smooth collie mix we adopted from a rescue group in 2010, nine days after putting our last dog to sleep.

“I can’t do this again,” I’d cried to my vet as she euthanized our golden retriever.

This was the second golden we’d lost to cancer in a six-year period. As much as I loved the breed, it was prone to cancer, and I couldn’t endure another early death. Maybe a mixed breed would help us hedge our bets.

“I have a collie mix,” my vet said. “Do you want to see a picture?”

He had a long snout and sweet eyes. I smiled through my tears.

“I know a woman who does rescue. If you want, I’ll put you in touch.”

Days later, I channeled my sorrow into Petfinder, searching through photos of available dogs on the rescue group’s page. It’s where I saw “Marty,” a 1-year-old mix found wandering around a trailer park in Kentucky, who was now being fostered in the Philadelphia suburbs. They suspected he might have been abused. I convinced Stu and Sammie, our 13-year-old daughter, to come with me to check him out.

Marty’s foster mom owned two purebred collies, round and wooly as sheep. Marty was smaller — about 42 pounds, his ribs still prominent from surviving on the streets. His brown and white fur was soft as a mink and his eyes were soulful and searching.

I was charmed by Marty’s ears, which perched upright one moment and tipped forward like a collie’s the next. He could swivel them from front-facing to sideways and back. When Marty rolled onto his side and tapped my leg with a freckled paw, I was smitten.

“I really think we could give him a good home,” I said to Stu. He responded the same way he had when I’d talked him into rescuing our last dog.

“If we do this, we’re doing it for you. I don’t need another dog.”

I wasn’t worried. Stu was as big a dog lover as me. Sammie, however, wasn’t having it.

“I don’t want this dog. I want another golden retriever,” she told us.

I knew she was speaking from loss. As a concession, we renamed Marty after her favorite Phillies player, Chase Utley.

On Chase’s first night, he imprinted on me like a duckling, following me around the house. He took revenge on the human with the bad attitude by dropping two surprises on Sammie’s floor while she slept. I discovered and removed them the next morning before she woke up.

“Why are my windows open?” she asked, finally stirring.

“It smelled like a locker room in here,” I said pointing to her softball bag.

I was already protecting my dog.

On his second day, Chase chewed the back off our sofa. I called the foster mom.

“Did I make a mistake?”

“Use your crate when you can’t supervise him. He’ll come around,” she said.

I did. And he did.

Looking back, all of my dogs had a destructive phase, which, like the pain of childbirth, I’d conveniently forgotten before adopting another.

Goldens are goofy, playful and affectionate. Chase doesn’t lick and can dodge an outstretched hand like a prizefighter. He has no interest in chew toys, stuffed animals or fetch. He hates being brushed and leaves his food untouched until bedtime, pawing the sofa until one of us adds more toppings to his bowl. If you scratch behind his ears, he’ll lean into you and sigh.

Chase took the longest of all our dogs to figure out, which is why he’s the dog we’ll miss the most.

My workday companion, he naps on the sofa in my home office and psychically knows the instant I’m ready for a walk. He’ll tap dance around me and corncob my leg with tiny nibbles until I clip on his leash.

My husband is the one he trusts to trim his nails. Chase thumps his tail between clips, calmed by Stu’s assurances. When it’s over, they celebrate with treats and cries of, “You did it! Good boy!”

It took a while for Sammie to come around, but now she and Chase are best buds. Using his nose as a missile, he bursts through her closed bedroom door several times a day and barks at his “Sissy,” who fusses over him with baby talk. Now 27, Sammie has delayed moving out, reluctant to miss Chase’s final days.

My husband’s been scanning the real estate listings for years, searching for a condo or apartment for our next phase of life. Recently, I inherited a small beachside condo from my parents. It’s in a town in New Jersey we’ve loved visiting for 35 years. During the pandemic lockdown, Stu had an idea.

“If we update the condo, we could live there full time.”

Our condo is in a high-rise that doesn’t allow pets, though there’s a suspiciously high number of emotional support animals. Bringing Chase is not an option. At 15, his legs aren’t as sturdy — he’d be a foal on ice skates on our tile floors. Plus, he’s a barker, a habit that’s worsened with age.

The truth is, after decades of responsibility, a tiny part of me craves the freedom of a pet-free empty nest. Until then, we’ll remain in our house with its fenced-in yard and neighborhood that’s ideal for walking.

One night, Stu and I were talking about our future plans when Sammie interrupted.

“I know you’re excited about moving, but let’s not forget to enjoy this too — it’s the last time all four of us will be living together under one roof.”

I glanced at the tattoo on her ankle, an outline of Chase’s head — one ear up, the other at half-mast — and that’s when it hit me: We were three adults, tethered in place by our shared devotion to one dog.

Soon, a major chapter of my life will be over. I’ll not only be saying goodbye to living in a house and seeing my daughter every day, but to sharing my life with a pet.

Since that conversation, I’ve felt a heightened appreciation for these precious days. I linger on walks, allowing Chase to sniff until he’s satisfied. I stay up late with my daughter, bingeing “The Real Housewives” — our closeness and laughter more valuable to me than sleep.

Two things can be possible at once. I can be eager for the next phase of my life to begin and wholly unprepared to let this one go.

Sammie found an apartment and is moving out this month. While I’ll still have my four-legged baby at home, I’m already feeling anticipatory grief over his inevitable passing. Chase has now outlived every dog I’ve ever loved, including my childhood pets.

Each loss left me hollow, mirroring the empty silence in my house. For weeks, I’d hear phantom nails clicking on hardwood floors, feel the weight of an invisible dog landing on the foot of my bed. Each time, in the wake of that loss, it was only the search for a new dog that allowed a ray of happiness to pierce my grief.

I always thought it unfair that dogs live such short lives, but consoled myself knowing it allows us to love many in a lifetime. If my last dog hadn’t died so young, I’d have never met Chase and given him a safe and loving home, a family. But this time, there will be no next dog waiting in the wings.

The bond between a human and a dog is so pure and guileless. Dogs demand so little of us in exchange for their unconditional love. And while the anguish of missing their companionship feels like a steep price to pay, the privilege of a dog’s love outweighs that pain.

And what a privilege it’s been to love Chase. Even on my darkest days, it’s impossible not to smile at his soft muzzle pressed against my hand, his unbridled joy when I invite him on a walk, his rare bursts of “zoomies” and frenzied digging in our yard. Happiness isn’t complicated, he’s shown me. A midday nap, a treat and a stroll in the neighborhood with your best friend can be more than enough.

Recently, I saw an Instagram reel about a 27-year-old dog and joked with Stu, “Only 12 more years to go.”

I bury my face in the scruff of Chase’s neck and murmur in his ear, “You’re a good boy. Please stay longer.”

Abby Alten Schwartz is a Philadelphia health care writer and communications consultant for hospital systems. Her reported stories and essays have appeared in The Washington Post, Reader’s Digest, WIRED, Salon, Scary Mommy and elsewhere. Read her work and learn about her memoir-in-progress at abbyaltenschwartz.com.

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