🐕 More Good Than Bad (Deefer Goodbye)

Deefer passed away on January 19th, 2026. This is my goodbye letter.

I write and publish birthday letters for the kids. Yes, this includes Deefer Dog. You can read Deefer’s 10th birthday letter here. And here are Oliver’s, Annabel’s, Theodore’s, and Madeline’s recent letters.

Eight months ago, we asked the vet when we’d know it was time. She didn’t hesitate:

“When he has more bad days than good.”

I wanted specifics. A date. Confidence levels. Standard deviations. But that was all she gave us.

So I did what any reasonable person would do. I started feeding ChatGPT his entire medical history.

Stage 4 heart murmur. A mass on his adrenal gland invading his vena cava. Seven different pills every day. I logged it all. If the vet couldn’t give me a formula, I’d build one myself.

For eight months, it worked. More good days than bad.

—-

Friday. Amy ran upstairs to get ready. I was trying to get the kids to play Mario Kart. Deefer threw up three times. Then he started throwing up his water. And he kept throwing it up.

Saturday morning we were at urgent care. Blood work, fluids, anti-nausea meds. They suggested an ultrasound, but MLK weekend made scheduling difficult. I said I’d bring him home and monitor him there, where he’d be comfortable.

I had ChatGPT. I had a plan.

I prepared a triage station in the kitchen. Blue pill bottles lined the countertop. Boiled chicken. Two kinds of broth at the ready.

By noon Sunday he was holding water, but he wouldn’t eat.

That’s okay. Anti-nausea cocktail. Pain meds. Hit him with gabapentin, cerenia, ondansetron.

He was drooling constantly. He’d never been a drooler.

—-

That night he was barely able to rise to his feet. I picked him up, and put him on my lap. We watched The Last of Us. The episode where Bill asks his husband to euthanize him.

“Just give me one more good day,” Bill said.

Fucking HBO.

Deefer’s breathing was shallow, raspy. Then it settled. I picked him back up and brought him back to the kitchen. He took some water. I can still turn this around, I thought.

He had drooled straight through my sweat pants, through my boxers. It was clammy and cold.

—-

Monday morning I came downstairs to our triage station. He was lying in the same spot. I checked the floor and his bed for throw up or piss. Nothing. Good sign. I gave him a rub. Checked his water bowl—he hadn’t touched it.

I went to grab the bowl and slipped on a puddle of urine, hidden in shadow between beige tile and overhead light.

Then I picked him up and realized he was soaked.

I brought him upstairs to the tub. Washed him with the kids’ body wash, then back down to triage.

More pain meds. Nausea meds. Offer water. Offer food.

He kept the meds down. A sip of water. Still refused the food.

I called another emergency vet in New Jersey and scheduled an ultrasound.

—-

“If you are independently wealthy, we could certainly try,” the vet said. “But even if we resolve all of this, there’s still the underlying adrenal gland tumor. His prognosis is not good.”

She paused.

“I’m so sorry.”

She left and I laid him on the couch. I called Amy.

I should have given her more time that morning, before I rushed out the door. A chance to say goodbye in person. She was his person. Hers first, then mine. I wish I had just slowed down.

We FaceTimed so she could say goodbye. Then I called my mom. Then my sister. Then Amy’s mom.

Everyone got their goodbye.

—-

Amy reminded me to take photos and video. So I did.

I pulled his brush from my bag—I’d actually remembered it—and brushed his head, his ears, his belly. The hair came out clumpy from his ears, like loose threads.

I rubbed his paws, his back, felt all the cysts and bumps. Buried my face in his fur. Even old, his fur still smelled like puppy. But there was something else now, too. When he breathed, he smelled cold.

I picked him up, walked to the intercom.

I told them we were ready.

The vet came in with four vials. Milky white first. Then a clear one. Then a bright purple-pink one you could mistake for Calpol. Then one more clear one.

She told me his eyes might stay open the whole time.

They did. They stared at the wall. His heart slowed. The rise and fall of his chest stopped. She put the stethoscope to him and listened for the quiet. We listened together.

Deefer gave one last gasp, a cold breath escaping his mouth.

“He’s gone,” she said.

And so he was. My sweetest boy.

—-

I stayed in the room. Went through the routine one more time, tried to remember how he liked his rubs. His back, his paws, his head. Took one last smell.

Then I buzzed, and a tech came in. He said he was sorry. He took Deefer.

I gathered my things, went to the front desk, paid my bill. It was $1,986.45. We got a $65.40 discount. I didn’t ask why.

I sat in my car. Cried.

When I got home, the kids asked about Deefer.

“Is Deefer dead?”

“Is he not coming home?”

They sat with me for a while.

Then Oliver asked: “Do you want to play Monopoly with me?”

Annabel asked: “Can we get a cat now?”

Life goes on.

—-

That night we went through photos. All the way back. 4,084 days with our boy.

“I wish we could have given him a great meal,” she said. “A burger. A steak.”

I nodded.

“One more good day.”

But most times, you don’t know when to cash in that last good day. You don’t know it’s the last one until it’s gone.

Maybe better that way. Simpler.

Just give the people you love—the ones who love you back—more good days than bad.