I've been there too.

We adopted a boxer named Lola when she was about a year old. She really quickly fell in with our pug and yorkie, and was just simply the best dog we have ever had. Lola's favorite thing to do in the world was to go on truck rides. I had this beat up, 1998 Dodge Ram, and she would sit bolt-upright in the passenger seat while I just drove around in the country, or took her to McDonalds to buy her McNuggets. If she heard my keys jingle from anywhere in the house, she would sprint to the garage door. If she heard the words "truck ride", she would sprint to the door. She lived for those. I went off to college and saw Lola a lot less often. But she knew the sound of my truck, and if she heard me coming down the road she would run to the garage door to meet me. I took her on plenty of truck rides over holiday breaks.

The summer before my senior year, they found a lump on her inner leg. She was barely six years old. The vet said cancer was common with boxers, but we had caught it early. The lump got removed quickly, Lola recovered from surgery, and she was back to enjoying truck rides and long walks. But then the lump came back. And there were more lumps, including a large one on her neck. The vet said it was lymphatic cancer and we would be lucky to still have her by Christmas. We tried so hard, we had more surgeries, gave her medication, and in the meantime treated her like a princess. But the lump on her neck got bigger and bigger, and we made the decision that we would put her down as soon as she showed signs she was in pain. But Lola kept going. She was as happy and energetic as always, only starting to slow down that December. I had a month off for Christmas break and knew the end was getting closer. I took Lola on plenty of truck rides and fed her plenty of junk food. My break ended in early January, and I drove back up to school. A week later, my mom called me, crying. Lola has taken a turn for the worse, come home now and say your goodbyes.

It was an hour and a half drive back to my hometown through central Illinois in the winter. The sun had actually come out for the first time in weeks, and there was good music on the radio so I actually enjoyed the drive. But when I turned into our lane and saw a wheelbarrow and shovels in our back yard, I remembered what I was there to do. When I pulled into the driveway, it was the first time in years I didn't see her big goofy face waiting for me in the window.

It was eleven in the morning. The appointment was in two hours. Say goodbye. Lola was in bad shape. She had nosedived since I had left, and could barely stand. She wasn't interested in any of her treats or toys, and only wanted to lay on the floor next to us while we cried and petted her. I think she knew as well as any of us did what was happening. My mom decided that she wanted to be the one to take Lola to the vet's office, and that was fine with me. I really just couldn't be there. But I told her that she should take my truck, and should drive Lola around town one last time. My mom agreed and I went to get my keys. Lola was curious, and struggled to stand. She limped over to where I was standing by the door, curious. I opened the door, jingled my keys, and said "Hey Lola, truck ride?"

Her ears perked up, she tilted her head, and her eyes lit up. I said "Come on Lola, truck ride!" in the happiest voice I could manage. And that sick, sad looking dog sprinted out the door and to my truck with just as much energy as she had always had. Of course, she was too sick to jump into the cab, so I helped her into her seat while my mom got into the driver's side. I gave her a hug, told her she was a good girl, and shut the door. As I stepped the the front of the truck, Lola looked at my mom, then back to me. As my mom backed out of the driveway, Lola tilted her head and stared at me. Why wasn't I there? Truck rides were for just us. She turned around to watch me through the rear window as my mom drove away, and that's the last I saw of her. So happy and excited for a truck ride, but confused because I wasn't going with. I went back inside, sat on the stairs holding her favorite toy, and cried until it hurt.