Kyro

The 10 year old rituals I don’t notice until they’re gone.

He was just there, under my hand, warm and breathing. And then he wasn’t.

Not gone exactly. But his head dropped, the way a water hose drops after losing it pressure. Lifelessly. Is the word I would use to describe how he looked. His neck just gave out, and his head fell on the floor, and for about two seconds everything went quiet in my head.

I started yelling. Shaking him. “Kyro… Kyro!” Two shakes, maybe three, and then he lifted his head and looked at me, the way dogs look when you’ve interrupted a perfectly good nap, he was annoyed and confused, but completely fine.

I hugged him. I kissed him on top of his head. “Don’t do that again, stupid.”

He’s a border collie mix, black and white, medium-sized with fur that’s a little too fluffy for the Texas heat. He turned eleven in December of 2025. I read somewhere that border collies live anywhere from ten to twelve years. I haven’t been able to forget that little fact since.

“I’m not going to the shelter to get a dog. I want to be clear about that. I just want to look.” At least that was the plan. Just to look.

He was in a kennel when I first saw him and that was it, love at first sight. I asked to do a walk with him, and they brought us out into one of those small yards behind shelter, just the two of us. I petted him, and he flipped on over his back so I could rub his belly and I thought, yeah. Okay. He’s coming home with me.

I started the adoption paperwork that same day.

That was in San Antonio, Texas, when he was a one-year-old, and I thought I had all the time in the world to give him the life I had already built in my head. A yard big enough for him to run in. Only wet food. All the toys he wanted. Freedom from the fleas that have been winning the war against us for most of his life. I kept losing the war.

Now we’re in a 312 square foot house in my mother’s backyard in Eagle Pass, Texas. When he was younger, he used to jump onto the bed with little to no effort. The first time I saw him try and fail, he hit his chest against the corner of the mattress. He backed up and didn’t try again. I felt something shift in my chest; I didn’t have a name for yet. It wasn’t sadness exactly. It was the recognition of something I hadn’t wanted to accept yet.

He’s slower now. Getting up takes him a moment. The fleas got bad enough that he lost some hair near his rear end. I would feel embarrassed to take him on walks to the park, which I know was just guilt wearing a different hat. And we don’t walk around the block anymore since the last time we did, he came back home with ticks.

Watching him navigate all of this reminds me of watching my grandparents near the end of their lives. The way they moved slowly, like the world had gotten heavier and their bodies were struggling with it. That slowness that wasn’t laziness, more so the cost of having been alive for a long time. I didn’t know how to watch them then. I’m not sure that I know how to watch Kyro now. But I’m making myself watch because I know I’ll regret the costs of looking away.

Unlike like my grandparents who lived in another city, Kyro and I live together so I get to be there for his end of days. It’s both fortunate and unfortunate. I don’t want him to die alone without me there, but I also don’t want my last memory of him dying in front of me.

I struggle to make ends meet. How can I give him the life I dreamt of when I can only keep us afloat? And the worst part of is, I’m running out of time, he can pass away at any minute. How am I supposed to live with the fact that I won’t be able to take him on walks or see him run in a bigger yard? Or somewhere that is free from fleas so that he no longer has to suffer their wrath.

“Kyro, let’s go papa.” He takes his head out from underneath the coffee table. He struggled to stand. It reminded me of when I would help my grandpa by grabbing on to his hand and lifting him off the bed. It was almost the same pace too. He took a step and fell to his face. He tried and fell again. He went for the 3rd, I put my hand on his head and said stop. I put him on his side and stretched his legs out. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he was lying on his leg for about 3 hours. It fell asleep. My little man failed and fell in a way I’ve never seen before. Like a superhero falling weak… My superhero who was there in my darkest moments like when my ex-girlfriend had an ectopic pregnancy, he never left my side while I had that dark cloud holding me down.

“Kyro come here!” He’d come running to me without hesitation. Sit, stay, he did all of them. The only thing we never got down was fetch. He’d chase the ball, come near me, and drop it somewhere random and wait for me to throw it again. It drove me crazy.

Every stuff toy I gave him, he would have all of the stuffing all over the room. The last one I got him was Lamb Chop. He was so good at finding the squeakers. Another thing about him was his favorite thing in the world was belly rubs. If you met him, he’ll have to pet on head for a moment and then he’d fall straight on his back for belly rubs. Kyro was the worst guard dog in the world. He would start crying if a stranger didn’t some say hi to him and pet him. If someone broke into my house, he’d welcome them with a wagging tail.

On the morning of June 14th, 2026. “Kyro, let’s go outside papa.” It’s around 10 am and I’m running late. He gets up slower than usual. He started limping from his back legs. They wouldn’t keep up. His head was swinging side to side in a way I’ve never seen. We get to the kitchen, and I give him his favorite, wieners, he kills them. He holds it in his mouth for a second, then I see it roll on the floor. I couldn’t believe he just dropped it.

An hour later, I finished a zoom meeting and we go outside. This time he got up faster and had a little pep in his step again. I was so relieved. I had a difficult time paying attention in the meeting I thought my dog was starting the phases of dying.

At 8:41 pm, I start praying Maghreb. In the middle of the prayer, I hear Kyro panting heavy, I thought he was thirsty, but his water bowl is full. His panting gets heavier; I’m on the floor doing the last of the prayer we lock eyes and I just knew what was coming. “No… it can’t be… he was just ok.” I rush and end the prayer. His panting slowed down they started to be spaced out. “Ugh, what a relief.” He stopped; everything was ok. This “sign” was scarier than the first one with the wiener.

“It’s ok Kyro, you scared me again! You gotta stop that ok?” His body spasmed, almost like he was doing an ab crunch. “Kyro?” Another spasm. “Kyro what’s wrong?” Another spasm. I put him on his side from lying on his belly. And another. “Papa no please, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t do better.” The last one. “Kyro, I’m sorry… I love you papa.”

What was supposed to be a quick prayer turned into my burying my best friend at 11 at night. Nothing prepared me for carrying his lifeless body. I didn’t even know where to start. I wasn’t expecting his head to be so limp, I adjusted my grip and accidentally hit his head on the floor. A distinct sound I’ll never un-hear. As I’m about to place him in the grave, I lose grip and drop him, people say it sounds like a bag of potatoes, I never heard a bag drop, all I heard was my best friend hit his grave. I couldn’t see anything with how wet my glasses were, it wasn’t rain that was falling. I stand over his grave for a second before I put the dirt in. Then I toss Lamp Chop in with him, just as he left it, dirty and chewed up. He didn’t get to take out the squeakers yet, I’m sure he will in heaven. “Goodbye Kyro, I’ll miss you so much.”

I thought I would be ok. I was already grieving his loss when I read, he would only live up to 10 to 12 years. I was mentally prepared that he would leave the world soon. There’s one thing I didn’t think I would have to prepare for.

When our pets die, we expect to miss them, no doubts about that. What caught me off guard was the rituals I didn’t notice while he was alive. No more “Kyro, let’s go outside papa,” no more opening the door to let him in, stepping over him to use the restroom, calling his name to come get food. Now I see the empty spot where he would lay next to me, his leash hasn’t moved, his dog food bag is halfway full. I didn’t anticipate how big the hole his absence would leave.

Every morning I still wake up expecting to let him outside.

I get out of bed to go open the door. Then I remember, there isn’t anyone waiting at the door.