2017-2026

 Dexter Hugo Flegel was born on January 1st, 2017—because of course he was. Starting the year off with that level of main-character energy should’ve been my first clue about what I was getting into.

He came from a litter of puppies born on the back porch of a friend-of-a-friend who, very quickly, realized raising a whole squad of puppies was not part of their life plan. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous beginning—no fancy breeder, no perfectly staged photos—just a group of chaotic little lives figuring things out from day one.

And somehow, that made it perfect.

I was beyond excited. This was going to be my first dog—my companion—from the very beginning. No history I didn’t know, no missed moments. Just me and this tiny, unpredictable little creature, starting life together.

Looking back… I had absolutely no idea what I had just signed up for.

 Dexter lived a fairly… interesting life. I originally brought him into my world thinking I needed a companion to help me practice eye contact and ease my anxiety.

As it turns out, Dexter had his own way of experiencing the world. Eye contact? Absolutely not. Everything had to be on his terms, in his time, his way. He was deeply anxious, wildly expressive, and somehow both incredibly smart and endlessly chaotic all at once.

He was also one of the most loving and affectionate souls I’ve ever known. Loud? Oh, absolutely. Subtlety was never his thing. The neighbors all knew him—not because I introduced them, but because he made sure of it himself. Escaping the yard became a near-daily routine, usually involving some new and creative way to defeat the fence.

Dexter traveled all over Georgia with me, meeting people everywhere we went. He left an impression wherever he showed up—whether people expected it or not.

He was more than just a dog. He was my friend, my companion, and a constant presence in my life. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

 In December of 2025, I noticed a large swelling on Dexter’s front leg. At first, I thought it might be something simple—a sprain, maybe even a fracture—so I took him to the vet.

The news that came back was heartbreaking. X-rays revealed a rapidly progressing bone cancer.

My poor baby boy.

But I wasn’t going to let that diagnosis take away the time we still had. At that point, it wasn’t about how long—it was about how well. Every moment mattered.

So we made the most of it.

Dexter and I went on adventures—trips to the beach, walks through wildlife areas, exploring places and terrain he’d never experienced before. We lived fully, squeezing everything we could out of each day.

For about a month, we lived hard.

But slowly, things began to change. Each day became more uncertain. The pain grew harder to manage. And then, one day, I saw it in his eyes—the moment he could no longer hide what he was feeling.

On January 7th, just after his birthday, I made the decision to let Dexter begin his next journey. I couldn’t ask him to stay beyond what still brought him joy—even if it meant carrying that pain myself. It was the hardest gift I’ve ever given: to let him go before suffering became all he knew.

The morning of his appointment, I didn’t sleep. Not even for a moment. I spent the entire night memorizing every detail of his face—every line, every expression. I kissed him endlessly and breathed in the familiar comfort of his fur, knowing what was coming and refusing to let a single second slip away.

When we arrived at the vet, we were greeted by Dr. Ruff—yes, really. Despite the name, there was nothing lighthearted about the compassion he showed us. He had guided me through this process with patience and honesty, helping me understand what Dexter was experiencing every step of the way. Because of him, Dexter had been able to remain comfortable up until this moment.

I laid my baby boy on a special garment I’ve kept for years—something that always made me feel safe and protected. Dexter loved it too. I’d often find him curled up in it or wrapped in it on the bed. It felt right to give him that same comfort, that same sense of safety, as he prepared to rest.

As he lay there, I told Dr. Ruff I couldn’t leave his side—not for a second. I had promised Dexter I would be there for the entire journey, and that promise mattered. Dr. Ruff understood, and he honored it.

Dexter was such a good boy—some would say the goodest—but to me, he was so much more. He was my brother, my companion, the one who knew me in a way no one else ever could. When the staff prepared his leg for the injection, he didn’t flinch. He trusted me completely. He trusted the moment.

Before stepping out, Dr. Ruff pointed to a button on the wall and gently said, “Take your time. Press it when you’re ready.”

But I wasn’t ready—and I knew I never would be. The moment he left the room, I pressed the button. I couldn’t stretch out that anticipation any longer.

When Dr. Ruff returned, he began the injection. As Dexter drifted off to sleep, I held him close—kissing his face, telling him how much I loved him, how good he was, how proud I was of him. I told him his work here was done… and that he did so well.

Dexter passed quickly, peacefully, and surrounded by love.

I will never forget the kindness and compassion shown by Dr. Ruff and his staff during that moment. And I know, in his own way, Dexter felt it too.