Around twelve years ago, my younger brother Isaac got his fantasy Christmas gift; a one year old Golden Retriever. Our previous dog had had to be put down due to her trying to eat Isaac’s face off and a family in our homeschool group had come to realize that a giant, energetic ball of fur was too much for their small children to handle. So our parents took in Biscuit, named after a series of childrens books, about a Golden Retriever puppy named Biscuit.
Biscuit was a fun and occasionally naughty dog. He was obsessed with tennis balls and could play for hours. He wasn’t big on being petted, but would run around with my brothers and I and would often accompany us on walks down to the river, where he would swim and swim and shake his drenched fur all over us.
When I went to college, I would ask how Biscuit was, playing with him when I would come home, hoping he and our adopted dog Bingo were doing fine. When Bingo died, we tried to keep Biscuit even more company, teaching him how to correctly wander the house and let us know when he needed to go outside.
When I moved home after finding out I was pregnant, Biscuit became my best friend. There were days where he was the only creature I would speak out loud too. I trained my ancient dog to sleep in my room, we would go on walks every day that got shorter and shorter as my belly grew and his legs got weaker. During our intense times together, he finally allowed me to start petting him, a giant step of trust that I cherished.
When I received Scotti in 2011, Biscuit seemed so mad, but eventually learned to just ignore the puppy and go about his business. I think he was happy about the new routine of giant treats and special presents.
Since January, Biscuit’s sight disappeared, his eyes going completely blue, his mind slowly going. A friend prepared a hole, just in case he died in the winter. Biscuit needed help getting up and the walks shortened to just a trip around the block. Every visit to the boarders had me writing out a note saying if necessary, to put him down and not inform me until I came home.
In August, after Isaac went back to school, it was decided that it was time. Biscuit had been one of the best dogs ever, but he was in far too much pain to bear. One Wednesday at lunchtime, he, my mom and I took one final walk to the vets office after a farewell bowl of Peanut Butter Panic ice cream. The Doctor and her assistant allowed my mom to sob as they put my best friend into his final sleep.
Do I miss Biscuit? Of course. I’m not joking in the slightest when I say he was my best friend. There truly was three weeks where I only left the house to walk him and didn’t speak out loud to humans. He would lay beside me while I cried and was always happy to eat my leftovers. He didn’t warn me when I was about to walk in on a kid who broke into our house, but demanded I comfort him when the cops arrived.
Now Biscuit sits in a pretty little tin, on a shelf by my father. I’m pretty sure he’s being super demanding about a tennis ball in heaven.