Something truly tragic recently transpired in my personal life and unfortunately I have been too wrapped up in writing and advocating for NCAA sand volleyball to properly deal with it.

On November 1st, I picked up a puppy for my wife as a gift for our first wedding anniversary. I know, generally the first gift is made of paper, but cleverly I printed a card instructing her to the location where she could acquire her brand new Cavalier King Charles–satisfying old school Anniversary rules while stepping it up in the gift department. A standard I will no doubt regret as I inevitably let her down for years to come.

My wife immediately embraced her new dog, naming him Campbell, after the soup, and the two fast became bosom buddies. I guess it helped that Camp Town, as I called him, was a runt and weighed about 1/3 of what a normal Cavalier would weigh at his age. Skinny Bones Jones would have been a more appropriate moniker.

She took him to work. She took him to dinner. She took him to the gym. She took him to the movies. Campbell witnessed Avatar in its entirety without one bathroom break, one sip of water or even one hint of a bark, all the while sporting his state-of-the-art 3D glasses like the film watching professional that he was. Suffice to say, Campbell was a Momma’s boy. I’m pretty sure he was unaware of who I was. I’d take him for walks in the park and down to the beach, illegally, in Corona Del Mar. But as soon as he spotted Momma, I was like yesterday’s leftover Pei Wei.

It’s possible I’m to blame for this whole situation. After all, just before I picked him up, he spent almost an entire month in the hospital with pneumonia. It was severe enough that every doctor in the building believed he was on his way out. But he fought. He battled. He did whatever it took to bounce back and stay alive. So when I viewed his medical records, I thought all of his troubles were in the past.

Little did I know it would come down to this. Earlier in the week, Campbell received his rabies shot. The following two days he seemed overwhelmingly lethargic; slow to move, no appetite, didn’t want to play, you name it. So, we thought it was just a reaction to the shot. We called the vet and he said there was nothing to worry about; a dog as small as Campbell would not be able to handle a shot that strong right off the bat, and that his symptoms were common.

Nothing to worry about, right? Wrong. Yesterday morning, my wife dropped him off at the vet on her way to work because he was no longer able to stand on his feet to go to the bathroom outside. As he walked, he would tumble over; almost as if he had a few too many scotch and sodas and was just trying to make it home from the bar.

The news later that day is the reason I’m writing a blog now. Campbell is sick. Deathly sick. Possibly left over from his earlier battle with pneumonia, but most likely a congenital heart defect that was unnoticed at birth because of other health issues.

My wife is not a crier. Not in any sense of the word. I bawled uncontrollably at the movie “UP” and she was over there dry-eyed wondering what the hell was wrong with me. But when she called me yesterday, she could almost not get a single word in between the uncontrollable noises that accompanied her tears. Her message: Campbell was on his way to see a cardiologist to determine if there was a way he could be saved.

Melissa asked me if we could spend the money to save him. “If there’s a way out there to bring him back from the grave, are you okay with helping pay the fees to get it done.” I thought about it only for a second. I was willing to help Melissa do everything in our power to keep her new best friend alive so that at night, after she went to sleep, she could keep secretly sneaking him out of his kennel on the floor to join her on the bed; despite the fact I made it perfectly clear if he ever went to the bathroom on the sheets again, he was getting a leash outside on the patio and spending his days investigatingly nibbling leaves in the bushes.

She loved that dog more in the last two and a half months than she has ever loved me in the last five plus years. And I’m completely okay with it. He was a pretty remarkable puppy. What saddens me now is watching her as she has to let him go.

The final diagnosis from the cardiologist was a combination of congenital heart disease and congenital lung disease. Campbell wasn’t meant to be alive even this long. Pneumonia should have stolen away his time before we ever came to know him.

Regardless of cost, there is no treatment that will save Campbell. His lungs are full of blood. His belly is full of fluid. His heart isn’t strong enough to pump. His eyes are barely able to open. Tomorrow morning, Campbell will be put down. And my wife cannot believe or fathom that his life is about to end. At 10:00 a.m., Campbell’s suffering will be over. And that’s the hardest part. The vet made it clear he could last another week or so at home, but with the type of pain he’s in; it’d be even more devastating to witness the unsettling decline.

Right now, we’re grilling him up a choice filet mignon. And we’re going to feed him from our plate. Whatever he can stomach. And we’re going to follow it with as many doggy treats as he wants. This is his night. His last night. For tomorrow, he’ll be gone.

Campbell on his last day.