I glide my hand through his soft, thick fur. Sitting in a cage all day seems like torture. But we really had no other choice. A kennel was the only logical option. The drive felt like it went by too fast. My stomach drops, I'm not ready to leave him for an entire week. Dad picks him up out of the car with his bear like hands and gently sets him down like a maid handling a ten thousand dollar vase. I was incapable of picking him up because I was about a dwarf at the time and had arms the size of toothpicks. And Jake was a very large dog. He once was mistaken for a lion by our next door neighbor. It was quite hard explaining to her that this was our pet. He probably ate and weighed as much as a lion. At least I thought that was how much he weighed until we put him on the scale at the kennel. This day, he weighed 75 pounds. This was never a good sign considering he was about 100 pounds the month before. As a result we had the doctor check him out. Jake seemed very sluggish and looked tired. He slowly wobbled back into the office. It was like his energy was gone. My mom, dad , and brother all knew something was wrong but never expected what was to come next. The doctor came out looking concerned, very concerned. He fumbled on his words and started to develop a stutter. I could tell the words weren't coming out easily. His face became red, like a cherry tomato. The message is simple: Jake’s organs are shutting down.  He is dying. The main message is with all of Jake's health problems and the amount of weight that he's lost that it is time to let him go. It could have been cancer but no one really needed to know. Pictures of happy dogs surround us. Once, that used to be Jake and I. This left me crying and I kick the ground. Doctors didn’t really think that he'd make it through the week. This wasn’t a two way street. He only has one fate. In a few minutes there would be no heartbeat. No more goodbyes. No more fetch. No more Jake. So I take this time to say goodbye now. I pet him and hug him but he doesn’t know what's to come. He’s  just happy to get attention but he can’t see where he is and what is to come next. He’s about to get blindsided. I think I am about swimming in all of our tears. One after another they came down my face, dampening my shirt. I’ve never actually seen my dad cry. The only thing he says is “He’s in a better place now.” The feeling is gut wrenching. I hope that feeling never comes again. It feels like someone is blowing an air horn in your ear. All you want to do is cover your ears and roll up into a ball. I could just tell the meaning Jake had on my family. And now I guess we go to Puerto Rico not worrying if he's okay but worry how I’ll fill the empty space in my life that he left.