Watching Sugar Die
By Mike Arnold
Sugar came into this world by accident—or maybe by grace.
Her mother had already delivered the rest of the litter, did her rounds, and went outside to relieve herself. That’s when Sugar arrived, last and unexpected, on our property here in Blanco. She wasn’t the runt, but she wasn’t the pick of the litter either. She was simply the sweetest of them all, and the kids claimed her before I could.
Her grandfather had been an international field trial champion, built for speed and endurance. Sugar got a touch of that, but mostly she got the temperament. Obedient. Polite. The kind of dog you could trust with anything. She lives for snacks and has a way of leaning her head against you like she’s holding on for dear life. She’s always been more emotionally tethered than most dogs—if I moved from one room to another, she’d follow. If I stayed up too late working, she’d stay up with me.
For thirteen years, she’s been my shadow. Every evening, I walk her and Chika, our 2½-year-old heeler mutt. Out here in the country there’s no leash, just the crunch of gravel under my boots and the rhythm of paws in the dust.
These days, I’m convinced Chika’s the only reason Sugar still goes. Chika charges ahead, doubles back, circles us in wide loops. Sugar pretends to be annoyed—ears back, little huff through her nose—but without that pushy ball of energy, she might have stopped walking months ago. It’s a love-hate relationship. Chika is part cheerleader, part little sister who can’t stop poking you in the ribs. I sometimes feel more like Sugar myself—grateful for the company, even if the energy makes me tired.
But Sugar’s hips are going. The walks are turning into shuffles. She still wants to go, still perks up when we head out, but every so often she stops and looks at me as if to say, I’m trying.
I know what’s coming.
There’s a line every dog owner dreads—the point where the dog’s life becomes more about enduring than enjoying. For Sugar, that thing is the walk. When she can’t walk anymore, we’ll have to make the choice I don’t want to make.
She doesn’t know. She still greets every day like it’s a gift. Still nudges my hand for one more scratch, still sits with the patience of a saint waiting for a snack. But I know. And knowing is its own kind of grief—watching the last miles tick away, knowing that every walk might be the last.
Some goodbyes come all at once, like a slammed door. This one’s coming like a sunset—beautiful, slow, and impossible to stop.