He and his two sisters were just a few weeks old when they were found in an abandoned warehouse. We chose the boy; my eldest daughter took his two sisters. I wasn’t eager to engage in this new venture; I had just put down our beloved shepherd/lab mix, Marshmallow, a six-year-old with Addison’s disease just a couple of weeks prior, and we were still grieving. But this dog’s eyes followed our every move and locked with ours as if to say, “I will faithfully follow you to the ends of the earth . . . if you’ll have me!” We had no choice but to choose him.

(Of course, we might have misunderstood. He could have been saying, “You people are MINE now!” Who knows?) So, we named him Lex Oliver (after Lex Luthor and Oliver Queen, the “Green Arrow” since we were watching Smallville at the time). I was uncertain whether his part-Pitt pedigree would prove dangerous, but the Lab part of him soon made it clear there was nothing to fear.

He was nothing short of handsome in his beautiful black coat (I called it his tuxedo) with a couple of white accents, square Pitt Bull jaw, and engaging brown eyes. It wasn’t long before he had worked his way into our hearts. He is there still.

Weeks turned into months, months to years, and almost inexplicably our furry pet was two months from turning 18, and, practically speaking, as much a part of the family as we were.

In that length of time (especially for an indoor dog like Lex – which, of course, I called “our air conditioned dog”) our pet had shared in our physical and emotional struggles just as we shared in his. After all, in dog years he was about 125 years old, right? He was present for my heart attack 9 years ago, barking protectively, shut up in a bedroom as firemen entered our house in the wee hours and carried me out to the ambulance. He laid beside me in my recovery very much aware of the seriousness of the time. He was present in the years we lost one parent after another, spanning the years from 2009 to 2021.

Lex was present for the arrival of each of our four grandchildren. And yes, he was with us on the day our family mourned the loss of Ewan, my eldest daughter’s stillborn child. Every Christmas my youngest daughter decorated Lex with lights, and every Thanksgiving he celebrated with us by looking for fallen crumbs off the dining table.

He was present as my wife began to struggle with major health issues. And he witnessed my youngest daughter’s bout with panic attacks. But his own physical struggles were in the family mix, too: being viciously attacked by a neighbor’s dog (that injured his eye), numerous tumors, an irreparable CCL in one back leg, and various maladies (and cones-of-shame) through the years. We began fearing we would lose him YEARS ago, but at each annual visit with the Vet his blood work was impeccable; his heart and strength of spirit were indomitable; I said, humorously, that he might outlive us all and be found grieving beside our graves.

And truthfully . . . that might actually have proven true had we not had to make the decision to have him put down on Sept. 4, 2025.

Our daily afternoon walks (which he entered the room and announced without fail) began to diminish in duration as his back left leg began to fail him, and a couple of instances of overheating made us adorn him with “the blue cape,” a cool water-retaining rag held on with a clothes pin when we walked in the warmer months. A few months ago the walks ended altogether, and we would let him out in the front yard to “do his business” and to do what I finally realized was “grass watching” (the way some people “bird watch”). His inability to handle steps had long before stopped his going down off the back deck into the backyard. Eventually he completely stopped going out on the back deck at all.

His world got smaller. He slept most of the day in his luxury bed in our back bedroom. He compensated for his failing eyesight with a nose that could detect rotisserie chicken still in the plastic bag on grocery day . . . all the way from the back of the house. He began to hate loud noises, or even conversation near him, and in his final year or two was afraid of thunder. He became a recluse. He would still come out to sniff and greet newcomers, but not in the way he used to, and not for any measurable duration; his cushioned bed was his castle.

In his younger days he had been a lover of bluegrass and country music and would lay in the middle of the floor amongst our instrument cases when we practiced; he was never critical of our performance but seemed to really enjoy it. But in his latter years music no longer enthralled him.

After my heart attack, when I returned to part-time work, our work hours allowed me to come home for lunch and nap during a three hour break; Lex would join me every time.

If he could find a good blanket to wrap himself up in . . . he would, especially if it was at his Mommy’s feet! And a good chew toy (that we called “Spikey”) never hurt anyone! “Go find Spikey,” we would say! And off he would go to search.

Lex had a bark that sounded twice the size of his 60-65 pound body; he was a bass-baritone who would bellow so hard his front legs would lift up off the ground. And we called him by so many names: Lex, Lex Oliver (if he was in trouble with our daughter), Lexycorn, Goobie, Buddy, Junk Yark Dog, Corndog, Boogie, Muskrat, Baby Legs and 25 other epithets.

Lex was always ready to join family members in a nap.

His squirrel and cat chasing diminished after his leg injury, and the animals nearby soon came to realize they were in little to no danger near him; they were no longer a priority to him. Like the rest of us who are aging . . . he began to slow down.

In his first years with us he and his sisters (they would come to visit) would wrestle and play in the backyard . . . well, until there would be a fight, that is. Lex was so obsessed with his sisters and got so excited when they would visit. All we would have to say are the words “the girls are here” and he would go crazy and race to the front windows with anticipation. Invariably he would bother them until a defensive growl and snarl from one of them would end the fun. Sometimes we would have to separate them (some inside, some outside), but eventually all would come in, lie down, and sleep on the floor.

I have often wondered how these creatures, descended from wolves, are able to capture our hearts. I am sure their total dependence on us for food and care is a part of it, but . . . there has to be more. If you look into their eyes something almost magical happens; there must be a love vortex that sucks you inward until you actually see them as almost human. We used to joke about Lex, saying, “Great dog . . . horrible person!”

There were, however, certain things Lex did not like at all. And as he got older it became abundantly clear that one of those things was bath time. As a tiny pup he had little choice but to endure it, but as an adult (especially an aging one) he made it clear that he would just as soon avoid it if at all possible.

When the vet suggested the drug librela to control his osteoarthritis pain (in addition to the galliprant we were already giving him) in January 2025 we jumped at the chance to prolong his rapidly diminishing mobility. And it did seem to help a great deal for the next 8 months. Truthfully, though, it would take him a couple of days to become himself again; the trauma of the visits took their toll. But as he reached the date for his 9th shot his disability was markedly worse, and finally, not able to stand on his own except for brief moments, he would collapse. In his eyes I could see the terror, the frightened and alarmed look of a defenseless and vulnerable animal; our help lifting him would not allay his fears.

We had discussed this moment with the vet months before; she had assured us that he was a candidate for euthanasia at any point we decided was time. His look that day transmitted to us, in no uncertain terms, that it was that time. All that night and the next day until his 4:00 PM appointment we began the process of preparing to grieve. His last day on earth he had no inclination to come to his food bowl, even though I had bought rotisserie chicken; I took several pieces back to his bed and he ate them. He also drank a small amount of water, but we had to take that to him, too. He just didn’t trust himself to stand and walk.

The clock moved ever so slowly that day for us all . . . until the last hour; at that point it seemed to speed up tremendously. We took him out to the car, placed him on his bed in the back and drove to the vet minutes away. The sunlight on his final car ride was like a glowing blanket engulfing him. Once we were inside we stroked his hair gently, and watched as he was given a fast acting sedative with ketamine to calm him, then he was given the slow fatal dose of pentobarbital. The goneness was palpable. But he died in peace . . . in his own bed.

A young, energetic, bigger-than-life animal had endured the pains of a long life, developed his own unique side-winding way to walk in order to compensate for his injured leg, grown grey hairs with age, lost some canines with time, and lost the ability to see clearly. Yet . . . was a faithful friend till the end.

I could tell more stories but that would prove endless:

1. the 10 minute delayed howl (in his old age) after being rushed upon by a young neighbor dog
2. deciding to take himself for a walk one day
3. journeying around from the backyard to patiently waiting at the front door because someone forgot to close the gate
4. his relationship with the Orkin men that came every two months
5. his off-the-charts love for our neighbor, Pat, (and her backup, Paula) who graciously watched over him through the years when we had to travel
6. his unique sniff or snort after just waking up
7. his careful examination of the small statue identical to him that sat on our back deck
8. the rising pitch of his farts (he had his own unique melody)
9. the way the wind outside would excite him (in his younger years) and cause him to run around in a craze
10. his “reset button” (as my daughter called it) when he would eat a bit of dinner then come out for a treat (or “num” we called it), then go back for more dinner, then come for a treat again . . . ad infinitum
11. His love for canned pumpkin and green beans combined with his dry dog food
12. the sound of his nails on the tile entry way announcing his desire to go outside to potty
    

“Goodbye, dear Lex. Thank you for the years, for the love, for the humor, for the protection, for the faithful dedication to your adopted family. You were . . . and are still . . . an extravagant gift from God.”

Now run with the wind! Speed around heaven with the total abandon you had in your youth. Your impediments are gone, the physical chains that restricted your movement are vanquished. You are free!