Shotgun, Always: A Goodbye to Chester

Publisher’s Note: I don’t usually write things this personal. But our editor, Doug Marrin, encouraged me to share this story—he said, “This will resonate with anybody who has lost a pet.” I hope he’s right. Chester was more than a dog. He was part of our story.

We never really know how much time we’re given with the ones we love—whether they walk on two legs or four. Chester was with us for eleven years. That’s about average for a Goldendoodle, if you’re going by numbers. But Chester was never average.

He was a story—a living, panting, tail-wagging story—full of mischief, resilience, and love.

He had his rituals. When the toy-of-the-month box arrived, he was already waiting. It didn’t matter what else was happening—he knew. But it wasn’t the toy he was after. Chester was a squeaker surgeon. Within minutes, the floor was a snowstorm of stuffing, and there he was, triumphant, squeaker in jaws, mission accomplished. That was his joy.

He loved people, he loved snacks, and he really loved car rides. But not just any ride—he rode in the front seat, and he really loved the convertible. Always. Head high, nose catching the breeze, like a co-pilot with no sense of direction but all the confidence in the world. People would point and smile—“Look at that dog in that car!”—and he’d soak it in like applause. He wasn’t in the backseat of life. Chester was up front, where he belonged.

But not every day was easy.

When he was still young, there was an accident—a truck that hit him and didn’t even stop, a moment no one ever forgets. We thought he was gone. He survived, but barely. He lost a tooth. His jaw was cracked, and there was a little brain damage—his stare lingered a little longer, he seemed just a touch more lost at times. But he came back to us. He healed the best he could, and we loved him through it. Because that’s what love does—it stays, even when things get a little broken.

And Chester stayed too. He stayed for walks and belly rubs. For quiet nights and loud greetings. He stayed when we were celebrating and when we were grieving. He was the presence that didn’t need to say anything.

He had a good life. But more than that—he made our lives better. Richer. Warmer. Funnier.

And when the time came—as it always does—he left us gently, without drama. Just a look that said, “It’s okay. I was here. You’re going to be fine.”

He was here. He chased squeakers like they mattered, rode shotgun like it was his job, survived what should’ve taken him, and loved us every single day of his life.

You’re a good fella, Chester. That’s my boy.