The End of an Era

A few weeks ago, we had to say goodbye to a deeply loved part of our family—Sirius Black. Sirius was my first working dog. An all-black German Shepherd Dog that I had dreamed about having for decades. He was the dog who taught me that resilience and perseverance are some of the most underrated traits there are. Never leaving your ball alone—even when your mom has yelled at you four times—is honestly an impressive level of commitment. Shedding enough to fill our home with the hair of what should’ve been five dogs, barking at everyone except the person letting you out of your crate, and keeping all the girls in check… those were just a few of the thousand things we loved about him. Seven short years ago, I was sitting on the couch with a glass of wine when I came across a photo of a fluffy black German Shepherd puppy. The leftover from his litter. The perfect puppy for me. I didn’t hesitate. I made sure he was mine, and less than a week later, I was picking him up from the airport. Impulsive? Maybe. But that’s a trait Sirius seemed to inherit from his mom pretty well. I still remember the moment I took him out of his crate. He wanted nothing to do with me. Instead, he wanted to run loose through the airport parking garage and check everything out. Perfect. I forced him into a quick snuggle before we started the very long drive home at three in the morning—a drive I would do a hundred times over for him. I had never been more excited to train a dog than I was with Sirius.

He gave me 100% every single time we worked together—even if it was just a walk around the block. The problem was, I had been handed a fucking Ferrari when I’d only ever driven a Honda. But I learned quickly that if I just sat back, relaxed, and trusted him, he’d take me on a journey I never could’ve imagined. After the loss of my first dog, Harley, Sirius was there to pick up my pieces. He helped me through one of the hardest times in my life, stepping into a role I didn’t even realize I needed. He helped me train client dogs. He pushed me to learn more—tracking, scent detection, advanced obedience, bitework. When he worked, he was all business. No messing around. And when he wasn’t working? He was the biggest goofball. One of my favorite things he used to do was climb into a chair and sit like a person, like he belonged at the table with us. And honestly, he did. He was my right-hand man. My shadow. He went everywhere with me. He would’ve followed me to the ends of the earth if I let him—and God, I would’ve let him. Not having that shadow beside me now has left a hole in my chest that I don’t just feel emotionally, but physically. Sometimes I still look over, expecting him to be there. And when he’s not, there’s this sharp, quiet pain that just… hits. It’s wild how much these dogs become a part of us. How deeply they change us. Sirius also forced me to become a better trainer. He taught me to look deeper into behavior and body language. In true working dog fashion, he was stoic as hell. When he was in pain, he didn’t show it in obvious ways. The first thing I noticed was his tail—just slightly off. Then his bark sounded different. That was it. So I took him to the chiropractor. Everything seemed fine. But the next day, he was worse—bunny hopping—so we went back for X-rays. That’s when we found out he had lumbosacral stenosis. A narrowing in his spine that was pinching his spinal cord and causing serious pain. We were told surgery and six months of crate rest. And I knew immediately—that wasn’t an option for him. Crate rest for a dog like Sirius would’ve been torture. Unrealistic. Unfair.

So we chose another route: laser therapy, acupuncture, and rehab exercises at home. And it worked. He improved. He got strong again. We didn’t need the vet for almost a year. When winter came back around, I noticed a small change—a slight skip in his gait. We went back in, did more treatment, and again, he improved. But those tiny changes… that was all he gave me. So I started watching everything. Every movement. Every breath. If something changed, I noticed it. I wrote it down. Probably a little obsessive. Definitely a little unhealthy. But that’s what loving a dog like him does to you. Then one night, everything changed. I was driving home when my partner called and told me Sirius had thrown up in his crate. Then four more times. The smell was…foul. Not normal. I knew immediately something was very, very wrong. I asked how he was acting. “Fine,” he said. But when I got home, I knew. He greeted me, he wagged his tail—but he wasn’t himself.

To anyone else, he looked fine. To me, he looked tired. Off. Wrong. We went to the vet first thing the next morning. I was hoping for something simple. A bad stomach. Something he ate. But the X-rays told a different story. Sirius had a mass the size of a grapefruit blocking his intestines. His liver and pancreas were three times their normal size. Everything was displaced. There was a strong chance it was cancer, and that it had already spread. In that moment, I had two choices. I could rush him into emergency surgery. Put him through pain, a long recovery, and uncertainty—knowing it might come back, or that there might be more we couldn’t fix. Or… I could let him go.

So I made the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I chose to let him go with dignity. He crossed the rainbow bridge with a belly full of ice cream and beef liver treats, looking into my eyes as he went to sleep—fully aware of how much he was loved. And just like that… The end of an era.