All dogs go to Heaven

Blondie
02.14.2013 - 11.06.2025

All Dogs Go to Heaven

I believe that.

I laid on the hallway floor with Blondie in her bed, rubbing her back and holding her paw, when she took her final breath and left us at 5:44 p.m. on her way there. I pressed my face against the back of her head as she struggled to hold on, and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You can rest now. Thank you for being mine.”

Her soft coat caught my tears. She let out one final deep breath and closed her eyes. It was over.

I’ll be forever grateful that Charity told me to skip the grocery and come straight home after work. I got to say goodbye and hold her one last time.

She was the goodest girl. I know I didn’t deserve her. Even on my worst days, she loved me all the same. Her love was absolutely unconditional.

She didn’t care how sales were going, nor was she interested in quarterly bonuses. Mountain climbing trips and 100-mile bike rides didn’t impress her. She was probably just mad I was gone for so long. All she ever cared about was that I came home.

There she’d be—standing on the couch, ears perked, tail straight up in the air, waving from side to side, often with a thunderous bark.

Wherever I walked, she would follow—especially if I was heading to the kitchen. She loved bacon and chicken, in that order.

In the 11 years we had her, not once did the bad guys she barked at from the door bother us. In her younger days, she’d get the zoomies and wore a dirt path in the grass around the fenceline. One day, I learned she was chasing squirrels that ran along the top of the fence just to antagonize her.

She always wanted to catch one.

As recently as a couple of weeks ago, I took her to the park for a walk—a day or two after we got her diagnosis. She moved more slowly in her old age. Until she saw a squirrel. For a moment, she went back in time. It was a beautiful thing to watch.

Blondie was the best $25 I ever spent.

In February 2014, Budweiser ran a Super Bowl commercial called “Puppy Love,” about a yellow Labrador puppy that kept breaking out of its home at the animal rescue to befriend a giant Clydesdale at the ranch next door.

When the puppy was finally adopted, the Clydesdales broke out of the stable and surrounded the car. The driver let the puppy out, and it ran back to the ranch, leading the pack of horses before jumping straight into the rancher’s arms. The commercial ended with #BestBuds on the screen.

The following year, Budweiser continued the #BestBuds story with the puppy escaping the farm and his journey back home. These commercials were the type of thing that reduced grown men, tough guys, into a sobbing, blubbering mess.

Alyssa and Marshall—four and one at the time—were smitten. We needed a yellow dog.

A few weeks later, Kayla and I took the kids to PetSmart in Lake Jackson, Texas. The Brazoria County SPCA was holding an adoption event that day.

There she was.

Timid. Tail tucked. Trying to shrink into the corner of the pen. Curled up in a ball.

Marshall made a beeline straight for her.

She lifted her head as the rest of us gathered around. She stood up, and her tail began to move.

“Can we get this one?” asked Alyssa.

“Yes, this one,” I said.

Her name was Goldie. She was about a year old. The volunteer said her background must have been traumatic. She only moved when it was time to eat; the rest of the time, she stayed curled up. They had never heard her bark.

The adoption fee was $25, and she came with a free bag of dog food.

When we put the leash on her, she stood up, followed us out the door, and hopped into the back of our SUV. She was now part of the family.

On the 40-minute drive home, Marshall—four months shy of two—struggled to get her name right. Goldie didn’t register for him. He called her Blondie over and over again as we drove the backroads of FM 521 toward Bay City.

It stuck. For the next 11 years, she answered to Blondie.

Her first day at home, she settled right in. She explored the backyard, enjoyed her newfound freedom to run, snacked on treats, and lay down in her new soft bed. I have a photo from that day—her paw hanging over the edge, resting on her bone as if to say, “This is mine.”

When she left us, she lay in the same position, this time with her paw on my hand.

She loved the beach—the sand, not the water. She loved the snow. She loved walks. She always wanted to be where the action was.

If we were cooking, she’d sit at our feet because she was the official taste tester. She loved bacon. She also knew Charity was more likely to give her food from the table than I was. More than once, she stole a cheeseburger off a plate when no one was watching.

She loved belly rubs and ear scritches.

She loved her family. She was fiercely protective of the kids. You could see the concern on her face anytime a baby cried. She allowed Anderson to pretend to ride her like a horse. She always wanted to sniff the top of Boston’s head. She was another sibling to Alyssa and Marshall, following them everywhere.

She loved me. And I will be forever grateful.

Blondie was there for me through so many things—when I changed careers, when I moved across the country, when my marriage ended, when I found love again, when children were born, and when I lost good friends far too soon.

Through it all, her familiar nudge with her nose and the gentle pawing at my arm reminded me I was never alone—that I had a friend.

They say all dogs go to Heaven. I think Blondie was a piece of Heaven that came here to us.

She may have been a rescue, but Blondie saved me. I am grateful for the short time I had her, and I will miss her forever.

Goodnight, girl. I hope you catch that squirrel.