Ode to Declan: The Dog I Needed

Declan was not my soul dog. I have wrestled with that thought so many times since saying goodbye. He was not the dog that fit neatly into my life or my heart the way some do. He was challenging, reactive, stubborn, and, at times, incredibly difficult to understand. But despite that, I loved him. In the moments of quiet reflection, I realize—Declan was the dog I needed.

He came into my life as a rescue, about a year old, already carrying the weight of fears and insecurities that I did not yet know how to handle. He was reactive to animals, small children, and the world around him. He barked at everything. He humped, something I now believe was his way of coping with fear, masking it with a show of dominance. He was difficult, and I was hard on him. I regret that now. I regret the moments of frustration, the times I wished he were different, the times I didn’t fully understand him. But I also know that he changed me. He forced me to be better.

Declan was the dog that pushed me to learn. He taught me patience, resilience, and the importance of understanding a dog for who they are, not just who I wanted them to be. Because of him, I grew. Because of him, I learned how to work with shelter dogs, how to approach reactivity with more compassion, how to see fear behind the barks.

As time passed, Declan became a good dog—not because his reactivity disappeared, but because I finally accepted him for who he was. He loved his walks. He loved curling up beside me. He always slept in bed with me—until he didn’t. That was the first sign. His back hurt. He struggled to climb stairs. And then, in the last few weeks, he began moving slower, his body betraying him in ways I wasn’t ready to face. He started having trouble pooping. When I took him to the emergency vet, they found a fever but no definitive cause. I brought him home, hoping he would recover. But when he jumped out of the car—despite his pain—I wonder now if he was telling me it was time. He collapsed on the living room floor, barely moving for two days. I fed him pureed food, and he ate all day Sunday. But on Monday morning, he refused to eat. And in that moment, I knew.

The hardest part of loving a dog is letting them go. With Declan, I will always question if I let him go too soon. Did I give up on him because he wasn’t my soul dog? Or did I finally listen to what he was telling me? A part of me believes he had already made his choice—that he was waiting for me to understand.

Now, I walk into the kitchen and see his pain pills still on the counter, cut and ready for a next dose that will never come. His food bowl sits untouched. I took the cover off the couch to wash, only to realize I don’t need to put it back on. His hair is still everywhere. His absence is loud.

Declan may not have been my soul dog, but he was the dog who taught me some of my greatest lessons. Maybe he knew his job was done. Maybe he was the one who helped me find my voice, and when I was finally ready to use it, he knew he could let go. Maybe we were more alike than I wanted to admit—both stubborn, both afraid of things bigger than ourselves.

It was never about not loving him. It was about learning to understand him, and in doing so, understanding myself a little better too. Rest easy, Declan. You were exactly who you were meant to be. And I was lucky to know you.