Losing our pets is an unfortunate inevitability of life.

I knew Batman was on the back 9. I was well aware we didn’t have much time left

In fact, my sleep had been terrible for nearly a month. I didn’t know why but I’d wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing. I’d get out of bed and check on him, ensuring that he was still breathing. If he woke up, he’d always give me a look like “What, Dad? I’m trying to sleep here!” and then I’d struggle to go back to sleep.

A more pragmatic person would tell me it was my subconscious.

I think it was something deeper.

Batman was my soul dog. From the moment I first held him, we shared a bond that was far more powerful than just a friendship between man and man’s best friend. I used to tell people he was my spirit animal and they’d laugh. I wasn’t joking, though.

I think I was sensing the life-force of his physical body waning. I didn’t know when or how but I knew our time together was short.

A day didn’t pass without me picking him up, hugging him, and telling him how much I loved him. Even after he lost his hearing, I never stopped telling him what a good boy he was.

Still, aside from his one “good” eye degrading and complete deafness, there wasn't any cause for concern. He was moving slower and sleeping a lot, which was pretty normal for a nearly 13 year old French Bulldog.

For the third year in a row, we decided to take a road trip for our Spring Break vacation. Batman joined us on our inaugural journey to Daytona Beach, then Cupcake came along with him for a trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Georgia. For 2025 we decided on St. Augustine Beach and since boarding is expensive and Batman was a bit long in the tooth, we decided to bring him and his sister along.

They made the trip fine as expected. I took them both on a walk along the beach and aside from almost having to drag Batman along, it went fine. We went to bed that night with both dogs sleeping in their bed beside ours.

It all happened so fast.

Batman was there with us when Emmy was born.

The next morning, Batman fell down the stairs. As far as tumbles go, I’ve seen him go through worse. He seemed largely unaffected at first but seemed to have trouble walking, so I set him down on the couch.

Within minutes, he was vomiting and urinating. Kelsea picked him up to take him outside and he lost control of his bowels.

”He’s dying.” I said. Kelsea looked at me in disbelief. I don’t know why I said it. I just felt it in my gut. My wife is much more of an optimist than me, so she introduced the idea that maybe he was just in shock from the fall. We decided to give it a little bit and see if his condition improved.

It didn’t.

I noticed his back leg buckling as he tried to walk, so I thought maybe he had broken his leg or hip. He wasn’t whining when we touched it. He wasn’t whining at all. He just looked tired.

I decided to take him to an emergency vet down the road, so I scooped him up in a towel and put him in the car. Before I closed the door, I paused. Then I went back inside and called for Kelsea.

”You need to say goodbye to him.” I said.

”Why? Do you really think he’s dying?” I nodded silently in response to her question.

She brought Cupcake out and they said goodbye but I could tell that she still didn’t really believe it was the last time she’d stroke his fur.

I made it to the vet just in time for him to start having trouble breathing. As I handed him over, I looked into his eye and finally saw a face of panic. He seemed scared and confused.

I spoke with the doctor almost immediately. They had gotten him stabilized and sedated. thankfully. She noted that there was some internal bleeding but she didn’t know how bad it was until she could examine him further.

I waited for a few minutes and when I saw her face again, I knew the prognosis.

The amount of internal bleeding he was suffering from was catastrophic. There had been some kind of mass that ruptured when he fell. She said that in all likelihood it was cancerous. In that moment all of my restless nights made sense.

He had been silently suffering all of this time. I knew it, too. I felt it.

I asked if the time I had wasted would have changed anything. She reassured me that that given his condition, it was going to be bad regardless. In fact, if we had left him alone to rest and gone out, we would have definitely come home to a dead dog. Hearing that, I was so grateful I took action when I did.

She told me that they could operate and try to stop the bleeding but even if they succeeded there, he’d be looking at 3 to 6 months of chemotherapy.

I knew what I had to do.

My boy had been suffering silently for months. I couldn’t imagine being selfish enough to subject him to a traumatic surgery followed by radiation, just to buy some more time for me.

I decided that it was time.

Even though I know it was the right call, it still keeps me up at night. Kelsea was back at the AirBnB with the kids and there wasn’t enough time for her to get to the vet. The vet said Batman’s condition was deteriorating rapidly and she didn’t know how long he would last.

I FaceTimed Kelsea and we both said our goodbyes.

Every time I go through this, there are images and sensations that get burned permanently into my mind. I’ll never forget the pain on Kelsea’s face when I told her. I’ll never forget what he looked like as he crossed over. I’ll never forget the smoothness of his fur, the contour of his head, the ridges of his ears, or his chubby paws.

The look on his face. He wasn’t panicked. Wasn’t scared. If he could talk, it seemed like he would say:

”It’s okay, Dad. I’m ready to go.”

I stayed for another 15 minutes after he was gone, talking to the nurses and stroking his head.

The pain of losing your best friend of 12 years is bad no matter what. What made it worse was how rushed and imperfect it all was.

I had pictured Batman’s last days so many times. I envisioned a glorious finale - A full day with his favorite people, eating food he wasn’t supposed to have and basking in the sun. He was supposed to go surrounded by his family and doctors that had tended to him for years. Instead, he left the physical plane in a strange room full of people he didn’t know, with his mom saying goodbye from a phone. That’s a hard pill to swallow.

It’s almost been a week and I’m still working on making peace with it. It’s hard not to be angry. I know I’ll get past it eventually but right now I just can’t help but feel like it was an unfitting end for such a special creature.

I guess it’s like Andre 3000 once said, “You can plan a pretty picnic but you can’t predict the weather.”

I spent a lot of time reflecting on his passing and if there’s a silver lining, it’s this: He didn’t suffer a protracted decline. He didn’t have to endure any painful surgeries or medications with tons of side effects. He fell down some stairs and was gone a couple of hours later. It was so on brand for him. He was the greatest dog and barely ever gave us any trouble. It’s only appropriate that he’d make it as easy as possible on us on the way out.

It’s easy to focus on how we went out. That last day was a bad one. We had 12 years of good ones before that, so how could I forget those?

He was the best dog I ever had.

Even tempered. Obedient. Friendly. Loyal.

He hated being alone and he loved being with his mom and dad. Every morning since 2012 he was my shadow. He’d follow me everywhere I went. He’d sit on the couch with me in the morning. He’d be sitting beneath me during lunch. Nestled beside me while I was playing video games. He’d be the first one to greet me every time I came home. He was ever-present. He was always there.

No matter what I was going through, he was always there to make me feel better.

My big boy. My best friend. My soul dog.

There will be dogs after him but there will be no dogs like him. I will never forget him for the rest of my life.

I’ll never stop missing him, either.

Love you, buddy. See you later.

-Eric

Batman 2012-2025

Parenting: ‘90s Style.