A VIEW THROUGH A DOG’S EYES
Thirteen years and twenty days spent learning to see the world the way Truman did.
He was about ten weeks old when Marty and I brought him home. The runt of the litter — a little body carrying a head that looked twice the size it should have been, and a tongue that seemed to belong to a Saint Bernard. Marty and I looked at him, then at each other, both thinking the same thing: he’ll grow into it. He grew — but somehow that head and that tongue always stayed larger than life. That oversized head, that enormous tongue, and that crooked smile simply became Truman.
Today is going to be one of the hardest days Marty and I have faced in a very long time.
Today we will say goodbye to Truman.
The cancer has spread throughout his body.
Love now requires mercy.
DEDICATION
To the Holy Spirit — for entrusting Truman to us for thirteen years and twenty days.
To Marty — who loved him, cared for him, gardened beside him, and received his morning hugs and sloppy kisses.
To my sister — who loved having Truman at Hobart Mills, and always made him feel at home.
To every friend who threw him a ball, watched television with him, shared an adventure, laughed at that oversized tongue, or helped make his life so full.
To every reader who has already loved and lost a faithful companion — and to every reader who someday will.
SCRIPTURE
“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1–2 NKJV
“A righteous man regards the life of his animal, But the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.” — Proverbs 12:10 NKJV
THE HOOK
Truman woke up smiling.
Not most mornings. Every morning. He’d get up already grinning, thrilled to see Marty and me as though we were a surprise he hadn’t dared hope for, then just as thrilled to go greet the younger dogs. Then out into the yard for his rounds — a slow, serious patrol to find out which critter had trespassed in the night, and to confirm that the world was, once again, wonderful.
I’ve thought about that a lot lately.
We can stand at the same window and see two different worlds. I might look out and see one more ordinary morning. Truman looked out and saw a yard that needed exploring, pups that needed greeting, critters that needed investigating, and two people worth celebrating all over again.
Maybe the window was never the difference. Maybe it was the eyes looking through it.
And when we came home — even after twenty minutes gone — he welcomed us like we’d been away a month. The whole body wagged, head and all, and he grinned from ear to ear. If you let him, he’d lick you from your feet to the top of your head before you got the door shut.
It didn’t even take an open door. Truman could be sound asleep across the room, and if he woke and looked over at me, I’d look back and point my finger right at him. That big grin would break across his face — up onto his feet, and here he came, running toward me like he was my long-lost friend. Every single time. He simply loved knowing I wanted him near me.
That was the view through Truman’s eyes. Everything was a gift. Everyone was worth the whole-body welcome.
THE STORY
He had his treasures, and he was faithful to every one of them.
His favorite was a squeaky glow ball — the one he could see and chase after dark, which made the yard feel like it belonged to him around the clock. In his younger years he was a genuine champion with that ball and a Frisbee, fast and sure. Age eventually slowed his legs, but it never once reached his desire. When he could no longer chase the way he used to, he’d still lean toward the throw as if the old champion were running inside him. All we had to do was land the ball in front of him. To Truman, he’d made the catch.
He supervised the garden like it was his second job. He followed Marty out to the beds, sampled the tomatoes, made his inspections of the avocado trees, and bit at the spray from the hose until he was soaked and delighted while she watered. He genuinely watched television, especially when another dog appeared on the screen. And he was, by private arrangement with an old partner named Peaches, a career avocado thief. For years the avocados went missing and we blamed the gardeners. We only cracked the case when we found the pits, hidden down inside their dog beds like two kids burying treasure where the grown-ups would never look.
Mostly, though, Truman was Marty’s shadow. Wherever she went — the garden, the yard, whatever the day’s project happened to be — he wanted to know where she was and what she was up to. He was her companion in the truest sense of the word. When Marty came into view, his whole face changed — the grin opened, the tongue came out, and he moved toward her as though she’d been gone far longer than she had.
He had his commentary, too. Dinner never seemed quite sufficient — Is that all I get? And any time we headed for the door, there he was: Aren’t you taking me with you? It could be 115 degrees outside, and Truman still wanted to come.
Because coming along was the whole point. Truckee. Hobart Mills. Rivers, streams, and lakes he waded into like he’d been waiting all his life. Woods and mountains. Vacations and long stretches in the RV. He even ran alongside the mule, keeping pace, thrilled to be part of whatever the day held. He didn’t care where the road went. He only cared that he was on it with us.
At Hobart Mills he had my sister, who loved him and always made him feel like he belonged there — because to her, he did. On his last visit, over twenty days, Truman gathered seventeen small sticks. When he could not find a safe place to bury them because the other dogs kept digging them up, he began carrying the sticks back to the door before coming inside, and we piled them there. By the end of the trip, all seventeen sat waiting by the door — a small, quiet record of good days. Those seventeen sticks are still there, still waiting by the door. Truman won’t be back to claim them now. But whatever my sister eventually decides to do with them, they will always remind us of his last great collection.
He had his own friends, too — people who threw him the ball, shared his adventures, watched television beside him, and loved that ridiculous tongue. His life was full because they helped fill it.
But if you asked Truman his favorite place in all of it — the mountain, the stream, the garden, the RV — he’d have told you none of them. His favorite place was wherever Marty’s feet or mine happened to be. As long as he was there, he was home.
THE MOMENT
As Truman’s condition declined, Marty and I could not bear the thought of him suffering after all the good years he had given us.
Years ago, the three of us watched The Art of Racing in the Rain, Truman stretched out beside us. By the end, Marty and I were both bawling. Truman was not. He was simply delighted that another dog had appeared on the television.
But the story stayed with me, because life does change the course. The road gets wet. The turns get harder. There are stretches that call for pressing forward — and there are moments when love recognizes that the final lap has become too painful to ask the one beside us to run.
Yesterday, a branch broke off Truman’s favorite avocado tree, heavy with more fruit than it could hold. And even then — even weakened, even sick — Truman went out and helped Marty bring the avocados back toward the house the best he could.
One last harvest. One more day of doing the thing he loved, beside the people he loved.
That was Truman. Right to the end, still showing up. Still helping. Still glad to be included.
Some dogs spend their lives chasing a ball.
Truman spent his chasing joy — and somehow, he taught the rest of us to chase it too.
THE TURN
He was the oldest of our four Australian Shepherds, and he ran the place — playmate, protector, disciplinarian, occasional rebel, and quiet teacher of every younger dog that came up behind him. They respected him. They learned how to be dogs by watching him. He set the tone for behavior, responsibility, play, and even a little rebellion.
Tomorrow, three of them will look for him.
They won’t understand cancer. They won’t understand mercy, or the decision we had to make. They’ll only understand that their morning companion didn’t come out to the yard, that ball time has lost its teacher, that the rhythm of the house has changed and no one explained why. Even Jasper — who spent a good many years mildly jealous of Truman — will feel the absence. After all that time together, he’ll miss him too.
And Marty is losing her companion — the one who followed her into every garden, every yard, every ordinary day, and lit up every time she walked into the room. She’ll wake and, out of thirteen years of habit, look for him first. I already know I’ll do the same.
We know that loving them means our hearts will one day break. We love them anyway.
THE DRIFT
There’s a voice that shows up on a day like this. It sounds like love, and it almost is.
Hold on one more day.
Ask him to stay — not for his sake, but because you’re not ready.
And when this is over, protect yourself. Don’t love another one this much. It costs too much to lose them.
It’s a convincing voice. I said something close to it to Marty this week — “Now I understand why some people lose a dog and never get another one. They can’t bear the thought of walking through this pain again.”
But avoiding this grief would have meant avoiding Truman. It would have meant thirteen years and twenty days that never happened. No morning smiles. No whole-body welcomes. No seventeen sticks by the door. No oversized tongue, no stolen avocados, no glow ball in the dark.
The grief is this deep because the love was this great.
THE REFLECTION
I keep coming back to how much of his life Truman spent waiting.
He waited at the door. He waited by the vehicle. He waited at our feet. He waited for us to come home, and then he waited for the next invitation to come along. And none of it looked like impatience. It looked like trust — like he already knew we were worth waiting for.
I didn’t teach him that. It was simply in him.
And the longer I sit with it, the more familiar it feels. Because I know Someone who waits like that. Who welcomes like that. Who stays close, whose mercy meets me before I finish the apology, and who does not hold over me what He has already forgiven. Truman’s faithfulness was never the destination. It was a window — a small, four-legged, tongue-out window into the heart of the One who thought love up in the first place.
Dogs are not divine, and Truman certainly had his rebellious moments. But faithful love always carries the fingerprints of the One who made it. And for thirteen years and twenty days, we were loved faithfully.
If you have one of these faithful companions in your life right now, hear me. Enjoy them while you have them. Every ordinary moment is part of the gift.
Truman was happiest simply being near us. He never needed to know the destination. He only needed to know whose feet he was resting near. Maybe that’s part of what God has been teaching me all along — that peace isn’t always found in knowing where the road leads. Sometimes it’s found in knowing Whose feet we’re resting near.
And there is one last thing love is asking of us today. It’s the hardest thing on the list. Letting him go is not giving up on him. Mercy is not giving up. It is refusing to make the one we love suffer because we are not ready to let go. It is the final, hardest act of stewardship — the last gift we get to give.
At night, I will still wake and think I need to check on Truman. Then I will remember there is no longer a Truman to check on.
For thirteen years and twenty days, Truman never knew how many days he had left.
He simply lived every one of them as though it were another good day to love us.
Today, that day comes to an end.
But his love will not.
Neither will ours.
WALKAWAY LINE
The gift was always greater than the goodbye.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
What might change if you met tomorrow the way Truman met every morning — as one more gift, and one more chance to love the people right in front of you?
And when faithful love finds you — in a person, in a companion, in an ordinary day — do you follow it all the way back to the One it came from?
MY PRAYER
Heavenly Father,
Thank You for thirteen years and twenty days of Truman.
Thank You for the runt with the oversized head and the Saint Bernard tongue, for every morning he woke up smiling, for the whole-body welcomes, and for the miles he traveled beside us just glad to be included.
Thank You that through one faithful dog You showed us something true about Yourself — that You wait, that You welcome, that You stay close, that You forgive, and that You do not hold over us what You have already forgiven.
Give Marty peace. Give me peace. Comfort my sister. Steady the three who will look for him in the morning.
And Father — if it is Your will, and only if it is — let Truman carry one big fat avocado to Peaches.
We trusted You with him for thirteen years and twenty days. We trust You with him still.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ABOUT G~
G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.
If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~