Big Bertha, Little B, Peanut, Peanut Brittle, Queen B, and Mold. These are the many names of my best friend, my 12-year-old dog, Bertha. Watching her waddle around, mapping out the yard blind as a bat, while I do yard work or chill with her has been an absolute treat.

Dog people know, each one is different, and we love and care for them in different ways. I have 3 dogs, 4, 8, and 12, and they all require their own time and attention, in various ways. Bertha, for instance, has long been on a medication for her arthritis, which she takes twice daily. Now she has a heart med added to the regimen, but as of right now, it is still fingers crossed on its effectiveness. At the other end of the spectrum, our youngest, Clyde, needs a ton of exercise and one-on-one attention.

As I sit here writing this, I can look over to the couch on the other side of the room and see her right now. She’s breathing heavily, but the vet said that’s okay, and the medication she is on may make her wet herself. Thankfully, I had recently bought little flower-print washable dog diapers, assuming Bertha would inevitably become incontinent in her old age.

We are hoping for the best, but understand the clock may be ticking faster than we would like.

Most pet owners will tell you you’re never ready for them to go, no matter how long you have had them. With Bertha, though, I think I am quite satisfied with what we have been able to do together. If something happens, I will miss her terribly, but we got our time’s worth, for sure.

I was in a really bad relationship for many years. I’m not going to get into it in detail, but I was very unhappy. About a year or so before the relationship ended, I received Bertha as a gift. My pittie, Bones, had recently died, and my girlfriend at the time forced her on me. I even sent Bertha back, but no matter what, I couldn’t escape her. With my recently deceased Pit Bull. And a St. Bernard/Great Dane mix still hanging around, I was not thrilled about getting a tiny dog. I had never had one, and they seemed fragile and annoying… which they are.

Bertha ended up being my rock through that breakup, as well as a series of mental health setbacks throughout the last 12 years. She has traveled with my wife and me to over 30 states, she’s jumped in the Pacific, camped at Yellowstone in October, been to the Navajo Nation, and so much more. I’ve grown into a man finally, and even though it was in my 30s (late bloomer, gang), Bertha was a part of that. Long, dark nights are so much nicer with a dog sleeping on your stomach or between your legs. We have grown old and gray together, which is a privilege, and I couldn’t ask for a better co-pilot than my peanut.

No matter what’s next for all of us, Bertha has left an indelible mark on a number of lives, and being able to provide her with an environment where she could grow to be old, toothless, arthritic, and have a bad ticker has been one of the finest things I’ve ever been blessed enough to do. A fine thing, indeed.

Bertha has brought my life some of its greatest joy.

I have a drawing of Bertha as a princess. My wife has used her as a mascot for our small business. There are pictures of her everywhere, and her beautiful sister, who was taught everything by Bertha, is lying next to me.

No matter what happens, Bertha’s energy is eternal. May the black mold spore forever.

Stay crescent fresh and hug your pets,

J.T.C.