Having dogs in your family is a joy—the companionship, the love, the adventures, the comic relief. There are a lot of responsibilities and chores as well. And some annoyances. That’s just part of the deal.

Then there are the hard choices.

Buster was the first leader of The Great Dog Pack. Today is the anniversary of the day he died.

In October of 2008, Buster stopped eating. I took him to the vet who found an enlarged spleen. Bloodwork indicated an infection—or worse.

Dr. Beavers prescribed an antibiotic that returned his blood levels to normal. She wanted to put him under anesthesia and do either a sonogram or exploratory surgery to determine if there was something going on in his abdomen.

It was expensive—and in the best case scenario, it would lead to more expense.

That was the beginning of the hard choices.

I said goodbye to Boomer on the operating table and left with no dog, a large bill and a gnawing feeling that I made the wrong choice.

Part of what makes these choices so hard is that they come down to money.

I had an honest conversation about Buster with Dr. Beavers. There were three possibilities.

First, nothing was wrong. The enlarged spleen was a result of an infection, and the antibiotic had cured it.

Second, something was wrong that could be surgically repaired—but there was no way of knowing without spending a lot of money and putting Buster through a painful recovery.

Third, there was something wrong that couldn’t be fixed.

For two of those three options, doing nothing was the right choice.

That’s what I did.

A few months later, Buster stopped eating again. We went back to Dr. Beavers. She felt his abdomen, and this time there was a mass.

It obviously wasn’t nothing.

The next hard choice was doing exploratory surgery to determine if he was terminal. This was major surgery—something he might not survive—followed by a painful recovery.

The other option was doing nothing and letting nature take its course.

We made the most of our 21 days—rides, trips to the dog park, playing ball, walks and the daily game of finding something he would eat. I think he played me for table scraps most days.

I didn’t mind.

I held him. Lay with him. Told him I loved him. Told him he’d been everything I ever could have wanted—that he lived up to the bargain I made with him the day I brought him home.

I asked him to help me make the right choice.

Asked him to look over me after he died.

Asked him to be there when my time comes.

Everything that needed to be said was said.

Everything that could be done was done.

Still, doubt lingered after Buster was gone.

Did I make the right choice? Could I have done more?

With people, these decisions look different.

People can make their wishes known. If they don’t want extraordinary measures, they can say so. If they need surgery, no one asks for a check before they wheel them in. There’s insurance—a system built to remove those questions from the moment.

With a dog, it’s not like that.

You’re the one making the decision.
You’re the one guessing what they would want.
And you’re the one being asked, right then and there, what it’s worth to try.

I’ve had to make these choices more than once. Each time it feels the same.

There’s no moral here. No clear answer.

Having a dog is one of the best things in life—until it’s time to make the hard choices.

If you’ve ever had to make a decision like this, you know how hard it is. If you’re willing to share your experience, I’d be interested to hear it in the comments.