The Best Dog Who Ever Lived: A Tribute to Blitzen
How an Unforgettable Dog Changed My Life and Why Losing Him Hurts So Much
By Logan Andrew
Losing a dog feels like losing a part of yourself. In January 2014, I met Blitzen at the Humane Society — a dog who not only changed my life but became a part of my soul. I had initially gone with my sister, who had been bugging me about getting a dog. Twice already, she had begged me or our parents for one, only for us to end up being the primary caretakers. Against my better judgment, I agreed to take her to see the dog she had in mind.
However, in the room where new owners meet their prospective dogs, it promptly peed on her. We laughed it off, but his size and energy made us wonder if our house was suitable. I suggested looking at other dogs, and she agreed. As we walked down the row of cages, admiring and pointing, we reached the end and turned back. That’s when we saw a dog open his cage with his nose and walk out. That’s when we met Blitzen, the best dog who’s ever lived.
Growing up, we had quite a few different pets — fish, many cats, a Pekingese named Peyton tragically hit by a car, and a brilliant Pomeranian named Murphy. Murphy could perform all kinds of tricks, like putting his paws in the air when I pointed a “finger gun” at him and playing dead when I “shot.” Women adored Murphy, and he adored them right back. As great as those pets were, they didn’t hold a candle to Blitzen.
When I say he’s the best dog who’s ever lived, I do so knowing full well that every dog owner says this about their dog. But I stand by the objective fact that Blitzen was the best dog as an absolute truth. You cannot convince me otherwise.
Blitzen never met a person who didn’t immediately fall in love with him. Even people who don’t like dogs — or animals at all — adored Blitzen. When I worked as the general manager at a Bourbon bar called The Renaissance of Tiffin, I brought him to work with me. He became so popular that I used him as an advertising ploy, and it worked. People who didn’t even drink much came just to see him. I gave him one of my bowties and called him Blitzen the Barbacking Dog. Everyone won: the bar did better business, I made more in tips, and Blitzen loved the attention (and treats).
I wrote much of this article a week ago because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get through writing it after he passed. I was right. Changing verbs from present tense to past tense is heartbreaking. Blitzen went to doggy heaven early this morning. I use “doggy heaven” despite my vocal criticism of organized religion because any universe where a dog as fiercely loyal and steadfastly kind as Blitzen doesn’t go somewhere amazing after death is a universe I want no part of.
If you were to create a dog, choosing the traits you liked best, I’m convinced you’d create a replica of Blitzen. In fact, if I were rich, I’d clone him in a heartbeat. He was exactly the right amount of everything you’d want in a dog.
He was loyal and would do anything for me, but he was independent, too. If he thought something was silly or pointless, he wouldn’t do it. One summer, my mother brought him to a softball game I was playing in. It was pretty hot but not unbearable. About 10 minutes in, I heard him barking up a storm — unusual for him. After the inning, I asked what happened. My mom said, “Nothing’s wrong. He just doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants to be in the air conditioning at home.” Sure enough, nothing was wrong. He’d just had enough of the sun and made it clear.
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He was unbelievably smart. All the time, we remarked how we didn’t consider Blitzen a dog — and he didn’t either. He had a stuffed animal named Benny, who he treated like his pet. He took Benny everywhere: to bed, to eat, and hilariously, to go potty. No matter how often we told him not to, he insisted Benny should go potty, too.
Blitzen was wary of tiny dogs, almost like he wondered what they were. Our neighbor had a few that would run over and try to play, but their barking and chaotic energy left him bewildered. While most dogs his size might toss tiny ones around like rag dolls, Blitzen just tried to stay as far away as possible. He was gentle to a fault but knew when to be protective.
One time, my mother told me about a man who knocked on her door, claiming to work for an electric company. Blitzen, uncharacteristically, barked uncontrollably and wouldn’t let the man inside. Later, my mom saw on Facebook that a man posing as a utility worker was casing houses to break into later. We’re sure it was the same man. The only time Blitzen was ever mean to someone, he likely saved my mother from being robbed.
Blitzen was the best boy who ever lived. While I could write a book about him, this article is more about the news I received last week. I had noticed him eating less, being lethargic, and not quite himself. After he became very sick one day, I took him to the vet immediately. They found a mass in his stomach, likely cancer. With his age — already older than the life expectancy for German Shepherds and Irish Setters — there wasn’t much to be done. I took him home and started him on medication, which gave us a few wonderful days of having “my old dog” back. But good things always end, and he took a turn for the worse.
I’ve lost a lot of friends and family, including two dads, and I can honestly say this is one of the hardest things I’ve ever gone through. People can scoff, but those who’ve had the pleasure of true companionship with a dog know how deeply they matter. I don’t have kids, but I cared for Blitzen for 11 years, even when I didn’t care about anything else — even myself.
And he cared for me. Dogs are the best because they don’t judge you. They love unconditionally. They are an unwavering force for good in a world full of bad actors and worse intentions.
Blitzen was more than a dog. He was my anchor, my companion, and the best part of me. And I will miss him every day. I just hope they serve endless bacon in doggy heaven.
Blitzen taught me so much about love, loyalty, and living in the moment. While the grief of his absence is overwhelming, the joy he brought into my life far outweighs the pain of his loss. He’ll always be with me — in the stories I tell, the lessons he taught me, and the countless memories we shared. As I move forward, I’ll hold onto the hope that somewhere, somehow, the bond we shared will endure, as timeless and unshakable as his love.
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