Originally published February 11, 1999
by Adam Zurn

With the upcoming Valentine's Day holiday, I'm reminded of a very special love in my life.

She was one of a kind in every way. This wonder woman wasn't a woman at all but in fact the family dog. The two of us have been the best of friends since I was ten when we got her as a puppy. She was a golden retriever with the best temperament, and she was super with children. Her name was Cedar because the house that we were building at the time she was born was sided with that wood.

She was my best friend, and that first Christmas I spent more money on her than both parents combined. However, disaster struck the week after Thanksgiving this last year. Cedar had a stroke one day and died shortly thereafter. She was only ten-years-old, which is not all that old for a dog. The only positive that I can salvage from this is that she went quickly and didn't suffer much.

My parents informed me here at school of what had happened. It didn't bother me much at first because, hey, it's only a dog-right? Wrong!! The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. It wasn't just a dog. This was my best friend (go ahead and laugh). But she would sit for hours and listen to my darkest secrets and deepest fears, and I never had to worry that she might ridicule me for them (of course, it helped that she couldn't talk).

Nevertheless, she never betrayed me, never laughed at me, never cursed at me; in short, she never did any negative thing to me. Best of all, Cedar had the perfect remedy for curing the blues after a hard day-a big sloppy wet kiss!

I'm not afraid to say it either-I loved that dog. I know that, if need be, she would have given her life to save mine. Wherever the family went, she went. It was nothing for her to hop in the car and just go along as she was a part of the action. It didn't matter if it was our trip to Yellowstone, the annual trek to the Adirondack mountains, or just a short drive to the store. She just wanted to go and to be with us.

This dog and I shared a bond that I didn't realize was there until she was gone. The two of us would go for a walk in the forest, but she never walked by my side.

Cedar was always out in front blazing the trail for me. We'd go a different way every time, but she still knew where we were going. It was the connection we had.

I think what made the relationship so great was that the two us grew up together. That's also what makes her death so painful. It's as if I lost a part of my childhood. In a sense, part of me died with her. When the two of us got together, I was a kid again-and I think she got to be young as well.

I guess the reason this bothers me so much is the lack of closure in it all. I never got to say my good-byes. Before I could return home, Cedar's body was cremated. There's nothing left, nothing tangible for me to say good-bye to and that's what's killing me. People need to say good-bye; people need that sense of closure to help them move on.

While I'll never have that face-to-face opportunity to do it, I need to say it nevertheless. "Good-bye, girl! You're the best friend any boy could have ever asked for!"

The point is that we all need to say good-bye. And as a reminder for us all, some things in life are still free, especially the unconditional love of a dog given to a boy.

-- Afterward--

I received my first Silver Pen Award for this commentary during the 1998/1999 academic school year. The Silver Pen Award is chosen and given by the staff for the most outstanding story, editorial, or photograph for each section of the paper-News, Commentary, Entertainment, Sports, and Photography. Only five Silver Pens are awarded each year and receiving a Silver Pen is the equivalent to winning a Pulitzer Prize at Millersville University.