The better part of a decade ago, we rescued Maddie with the help of the Pups and Pals rescue. She’d been found living on the streets, estimated to be around two or three years old. She was skittish—especially around men—which led us to believe she’d been mistreated in her early life. But the first time we saw her, we knew. Faith, my daughter, reminded me recently that we fell in love with that goofy Lab at first sight. There was a spark in her, a sense of joy just waiting to come out.
She warmed up to us quickly—especially to me. Despite her size (she weighed over 90 pounds), Maddie was convinced she was a lap dog. If I sat on the couch or in my recliner, it wasn’t long before she climbed right into my lap, tail thumping and tongue ready. She had no sense of scale, and we loved her for it.
A little over a year ago, we brought another rescue into our home—a puppy named Ace. From day one, Maddie took him under her paw. She became his surrogate mom and big sister, teaching him the rhythms of our household: how to play gently, where the best sunspots were, when to bark, and when to nap. Ace adored her. He followed her lead, cuddled beside her each night, and looked up to her in every way. Her absence is confusing for him now—he still searches the house, tail wagging hopefully. He misses her as much as we do.
This past New Year’s, I started noticing that Maddie wasn’t quite herself. She was slower, less playful. I chalked it up to her age. But a couple of weeks ago, she began limping on one of her hind legs. I took her to the vet, hoping it was something minor. There was no obvious injury, but the X-ray revealed a faint spot on one of her lungs. Labs are sadly prone to lung cancer, the vet said. We went home with pain meds and instructions to rest.
Over the following week, her condition declined. I knew I needed to take her back to the vet, but I hesitated. Part of me was afraid of what I might hear. By the time I finally called, the soonest appointment was Monday evening.
That weekend became a gift. We spent long hours together—quiet time on the couch, short moments in the yard, peaceful companionship. My son came home from college and had a chance to sit with her. My youngest daughter was off from school for Lincoln’s Birthday and spent the day curled up beside Maddie. When I got home from work that evening, the two of them were snuggled close on the couch. That image is one I’ll carry with me.
When I picked up Maddie’s leash for what would become her last car ride, she still perked up. She struggled off the couch, tail wagging faintly, happy just to go somewhere with me. We sat on the grass outside for a few quiet minutes. Then we headed to the vet.
The second round of X-rays confirmed what we feared: the light spot had developed into an aggressive tumor. The cancer had spread to her ear canal and leg. The fluid in her lungs made breathing difficult. Her body was failing her.
It was time.
In those final minutes, I lay down beside her on the floor of the vet’s office, holding her gently, cradling her head in my arms. I whispered to her, telling her what a good girl she was—what a gift she had been to our family. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stop time, to stay there with her just a little longer. She was calm and trusting, as always. And when the moment came, and the light left her failing body, she was wrapped in love.
Letting her go was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made, but I know it was the right one. She’s no longer in pain. Still, the space she filled in our home—and in our lives—feels enormous now that she’s gone.
I like to think she’s somewhere free now, unburdened and unbothered. Running through open fields, tail up, nose in the wind. Rolling in the grass, barking at nothing and everything. Just being a dog again. I hope she’s found that place. And I hope she knows we’ll meet again someday. Until then, Maddie—run fast and look for me at the rainbow bridge.
One of my favorite photos of her, taken seconds before she licked the lens, became the basis for the “Yellow Labrador Retriever lover” microbadge I created on BoardGameGeek. It’s a small digital keepsake, but now, it’s also a quiet tribute. A reminder of her presence and her joy.
Rest well, girl. You were so deeply loved.
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Maddie and the kids, Christmas 2011 |