I’ve worked at this dog shelter for over a decade now, and I’ve seen every kind of heartache imaginable. I’ve seen dogs left outside our gates in the freezing cold, entire litters abandoned in soggy cardboard boxes, and beautiful old souls surrendered by families who decided they just couldn’t handle the vet bills anymore.
You’d think I’d be used to the sadness by now.
But trust me, you never get used to it.
I first met Samson (not his real name, but that’s what I called him) on a Tuesday morning. I remember it so vividly because it was my day off, yet I got an urgent phone call from a co-worker begging me to come in. They said a large senior dog had just been dropped off—someone found him tied to a lamppost and brought him to us.
I sighed, took one look at my half-sipped cup of coffee, and headed out the door.
When I arrived, the staff looked drained. He was shaking in his kennel, tail tucked, refusing to move. An older dog with graying fur around his muzzle, huge gentle eyes, and a body that seemed worn by years of who-knows-what. And of course, a limp in his back leg. Possibly arthritis, maybe an old injury that never healed right. I ducked into the kennel, heart already twisting as I tried to coax him closer.
He wouldn’t move. He was terrified.
But his eyes flicked to mine, just once, and I saw that glimmer of hope, like he really wanted to believe he was safe. Even if he wasn’t quite sure yet.
For the next few days, I spent every spare second in front of his kennel.
I didn’t try to force anything. I’d just sit there, half-turned away so he didn’t feel threatened, and speak in soft tones. Sometimes I’d read random notes from my phone out loud, just so he could get used to my voice. Slowly, his trembling subsided. Eventually, he started wagging his tail (just a little) whenever I walked by.
The first time he rested his chin on my knee, I almost lost it. Shelters can be chaotic, with non-stop barking and echoes bouncing off the walls. It’s not a comfortable environment, especially for older dogs with hearing or vision problems, or for those who’ve been through some kind of trauma. But in that moment, it felt like we were the only two beings in the entire building. Just me and him.
It’s amazing how a simple action—like a dog resting its chin on your knee—can communicate so much trust.
I asked around, but we couldn’t track down any background info on Samson. No microchip. No tags. No one answering our “Found Dog” flyers. He was a big question mark with a sweet soul, and I was determined to give him as much comfort and dignity as possible.
We took him to our partner vet for an exam. The news wasn’t great.
He had severe hip dysplasia, an advanced stage of arthritis, and something suspicious on his lungs. The vet was concerned. Possibly a growth. Possibly cancer. We’d need further tests to confirm.
One thing was certain: Samson was in a lot of pain. But he kept looking at me with those big, brown eyes, tail thumping when I came near. He never made so much as a whimper during the exam. He just let me hold him, stroke his ears, and whisper that he was safe. He was good. He was loved.
Reality in a shelter is harsh, though. Senior dogs are hard to place. Senior dogs with medical issues are even harder. Time after time, well-meaning families come in, see older dogs with health complications, and decide they want a younger pup they can raise from scratch.
I can’t judge them for it. Everyone has their reasons. But it tears me apart to watch an older dog, who still has so much love to give, get passed over time and time again.
Days turned into weeks. Samson grew comfortable in our routines. He greeted me with a slow, tail-thumping wag every morning. I’d give him gentle rubs around his ears and murmur things like, “Good morning, old buddy,” or “You hungry, big guy?” He seemed to understand every single word.
But behind his quiet acceptance, behind those eyes that lit up when he saw me, I saw his body deteriorating. Each day, his limp got a bit more pronounced. He had trouble standing up after lying down for a while. Sometimes he’d let out a low groan when he shifted his weight.
We continued medical evaluations, hoping for a miracle. But the lumps the vet found were growing. The medication for his arthritis helped, but only so much. And his breathing got heavier at night.
One evening, after we closed, I stayed late to keep Samson company. The building was silent except for the occasional shuffle of staff finishing up. Samson lay on a thick blanket I’d placed in the corner of his kennel. I pulled over a small stool and just sat next to him in the half-dark, feeling helpless.
He licked my hand gently, almost as if he was the one trying to comfort me. It might sound strange, but I could see he was in pain, and yet he was comforting me. It’s one of those moments when you realize just how much dogs can sense our emotions.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rested his head on my shoe. Honestly, I was fighting tears as I felt his slow, labored breathing against my ankle. I stroked his back and told him that he was such a good boy. I told him I was so sorry this had happened to him, that we’d found him so late in life, that I couldn’t fix everything. And that I wished he’d had a family who never let him go in the first place.
I swear, he understood every word.
The next morning, I had a meeting with the head vet. The news was worse than expected. Samson’s cancer was advanced, and it was spreading at a pace that left us with few humane options. His best chance for comfort was to be placed in a foster hospice home, or—if none was found—he might have to be put down before his pain got unbearable.
We started the search. We posted his story online, we reached out to local fosters, and we did everything we could to find him a peaceful place to live out his days, no matter how short that time might be. Everyone loved Samson, but not many people are prepared for the emotional (and financial) toll of hospice fostering a large senior dog.
I braced myself for the worst, but a small part of me was screaming, “He deserves more time.”
Day after day, no calls came in.
I would look into his eyes, and it felt like an unspoken conversation was happening between us. He never complained, never barked in fear or snapped when he got startled. He just wagged that tail every time I stopped by his kennel or offered him a treat.
He was still the biggest sweetheart.
But at this point, he was also living on borrowed time. He had trouble walking more than a few steps. He struggled to eat on some days. And though the vet kept adjusting his meds, we all knew the reality: Samson was nearing the end.
I started to get nightmares about failing him. In my dreams, I would see him pacing in his kennel, unable to lie down because it hurt too much, while I stood there with my arms pinned to my sides, helpless.
In real life, I stayed by his side more often. I’d come in on my days off to sit with him. He’d rest his head on my lap whenever I knelt down, and in those moments, I felt like the world made sense. Like, if there was a reason for me to be in this profession, it was to give dogs like him a moment of peace, a glimpse of unconditional love in a life that had been anything but fair.
I kept hoping someone would show up, saying, “I’ll give him a warm bed and love him until his last breath.” You hear stories about that happening, and it gives you hope.
But no one came.
Eventually, I had a final talk with the vet. The pain medication wasn’t cutting it anymore. The lumps had grown to the point that swallowing was painful. Samson started coughing through the night, struggling to breathe. His tail wags got fewer and further between, and it felt like every morning, I’d see more worry in those gentle eyes of his.
The vet gave me that solemn look—one that I’ve seen way too many times—and I knew. We set a date to say goodbye. We had to let him go before the pain got too cruel.
That last morning with Samson was… indescribably heavy. I took him outside, supporting him gently under his chest because his back legs were so weak. We walked—or rather, hobbled together—to a small patch of grass right behind the shelter. The sun was just coming up. He sniffed the air, ears lifting a little at the chirping of birds. Even then, I could see a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, like he was soaking in every detail.
I brought a soft blanket and sat on the ground with him in my arms. He rested his head on my shoulder, and for a moment, I forgot everything else existed. I told him what a good boy he was, how brave he’d been, how lucky I was to have met him. I told him I loved him. And I swear, there was this moment—just the slightest tilt of his head, the warm breath against my cheek—where he acknowledged everything. As if to say, “I know. It’s okay.”
Then we went inside.
When it was time, I cradled his head in my hands. I pressed my forehead against his, feeling his breath grow shallow. My voice was shaking, but I kept whispering how good he was, how precious he was, how sorry I was that his life had been so unfair. With one final, soft exhale, he was gone.
I told him he was a good boy one last time… and I swear, he understood.
I sat there for who knows how long, tears blurring my vision as I gently stroked his ears. Part of me felt relief that he was no longer in pain, but mostly, I just felt empty. Even though this is the work I’ve chosen—caring for creatures who deserve the world but often get the worst—moments like this never get easier.
I cleaned up his kennel afterward. Gathered the toys he never really got to play with, the blanket that carried his scent. I tried to hold it together, but everything reminded me of him. His half-chewed plush squeaker, the bowl he’d nudge at me when he was hungry, the silly bandana around his neck.
I ended up stepping out to the back lot, letting the cool air sting my tear-streaked cheeks.
But as the day went on, something surprising happened. Another dog arrived. A puppy, maybe six weeks old, also in rough shape—underweight and malnourished. Terrified. I was assigned to do the intake. And when that puppy looked up at me with shaking legs and fearful eyes, I felt that same pull in my chest I’d felt when I first met Samson.
I bent down, put out my hand, and realized that, even though I’d just lost Samson, I could still offer this new little life the same comfort I’d tried to give him. Somehow, that gave me hope. It reminded me of why I do this. Because for every heartbreak, there’s another chance to make a difference—no matter how big or small.
I’m not going to pretend that losing Samson didn’t leave a hole in me. It did. But in that hole, there’s also room for gratitude—gratitude that I got to know him, that I was able to show him kindness in his final stretch of life, and that he didn’t have to pass away alone or in fear.
If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll consider opening your home or your heart to a senior dog one day. They have so much love left to give, and each day you spend with them is a gift you’ll never forget.
So, yes, I told him he was a good boy one last time… and I’ll hold onto that moment forever.
Because in that moment, he knew he was safe, and he knew he was loved.
And I truly believe that, for him, that made all the difference.