Amos – Part 3: The Hardest Goodbye

Part 3 of 3 in the series: The Dogs Who Owned Our House: Dana and Amos

Winter hit us pretty hard this year.

At the end of January 2026, we got a big snowstorm that dumped about six to eight inches of snow in the yard. Not long after that, a polar vortex rolled through. The snow partially melted during the day and froze again every night.

Soon our yard had about four inches of solid ice covering it.

Amos tried his best to navigate it with his brace, but he slipped and fell a lot—even without it on. Eventually I stopped putting the brace on while the yard was frozen because it seemed to make things harder. He did adapt and figured out how to walk on top of the ice to “do his business”, even with the bum knee and no brace.

Around that time, we noticed he was losing a lot of weight.

His appetite hadn’t changed, but he was getting noticeably skinny. He also started having occasional accidents in the house. Not often—but enough to know something was wrong.

Very unlike him.

And very frustrating for all of us.

We had him on pain medication for his leg because he had started whining more frequently, which was unusual for him. But it was clear he was declining.

The vet ran bloodwork, which surprisingly looked good. We tried some supplements for arthritis and decided to see how he did over the next couple weeks.

One Wednesday he actually seemed to be having a good day. Not much whining, and he slept most of the afternoon.

I let him outside before dinner. When he came back in, he seemed disoriented.

He wandered around the lower level of the house with no clear direction, eventually climbing onto the couch and falling asleep.

Later that evening I heard him fussing downstairs.

When I went down, he was on the floor in front of the sofa with his blanket wrapped around him like everything had slid off the couch. After a few minutes he got up and started pacing again.

Something wasn’t right.

He kept walking the same pattern around the room, bumping his head into walls and getting stuck in corners.

It looked neurological.

Our regular vet was closed, so we loaded him into the car and drove to a 24-hour emergency clinic.

Even there he continued walking in circles.

The Vet examined him and then brought us all into a room together. Seth joined us over FaceTime from Florida.

After an ultrasound, the doctor told us they had found a large mass in Amos’s abdomen. It was so large they couldn’t even clearly see his other organs. He was possibly bleeding into it.

She also suspected he may have had a stroke.

They could do more advanced imaging, but she made it clear that Amos was in significant distress.

We had talked about this moment.

Amos was thirteen years old. We had given him a great life for over ten years. And we never wanted him to suffer just so we could keep him longer.

So our decision was clear.

They let us spend as much time with him as we wanted. Even then, he mostly just kept pacing around the room.

When the time came, we called the doctor back in.

We hugged him. Kissed him. Rubbed his belly. Told him we loved him.

And we did the most humane thing we could do for him.

We stayed with him until it was over. . .and then some.

This dog had given us so much love for ten years, and we loved him right back. Letting go is always hard—you want to hold on—but when you know it’s in their best interest, the decision is also strangely clear.

That doesn’t make it suck any less.

Even though Amos slept a lot toward the end, he still had a huge presence in our house. It’s strange not letting him out first thing in the morning or giving him his meds before bed. Sometimes I still catch myself looking down into the family room expecting to see that big block head staring back at me.

Now the house is a little quieter.

We have his ashes here with us, so in a way he’s home. I know we did the right thing for him, and for us. That doesn’t make it any easier, though. Loving dogs is easy. Saying goodbye to them is the hard part.

Part of the sadness is knowing I don’t want to own another dog. We’ve done it three times now, and each time leaves a mark on our hearts.

One thing I’ve learned after loving and losing dogs like Dana and Amos is that they quietly become part of the structure of your life. They shape your routines, your homes, even your stories. When they’re gone, the house feels different in a way that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced it. But the trade-off is worth it every single time. The years of loyalty, the ridiculous moments, the quiet companionship—they stay with you long after the leash is hung up for the last time.

Dana gave us those memories first, and Amos carried them forward in his own goofy, sunbeam-loving way. And because of them, our house will always be a dog house, even when it’s quiet.

We would tell people that we rescued our dogs, but it was more like they rescued us.

We will always love our dogs, and we’ll never forget them. Run free you two, go catch some bunnies!