I was a young boy when we had Matchin, a beautiful St. Bernard who clomped clumsily around the house. I was very young…almost too young to remember.

Matchin was my dad’s dog. Really, he was my mom and dad’s dog…but there was a special bond between him and my dad.

My dad was about 35 years old when Matchin became ill. I wish I could remember more, but I can tell you what I do remember.

Pulling into the driveway on a cold, harsh winter day. Hearing my mom gasp as we approached the house. Looking out concerned at what she saw…and seeing my dad sitting on the ground with this massive dog limp across his lap.

My dad wept uncontrollably. I was whisked away to my room. Matchin was gone.

My dad was trying to get him to the car to take him to a vet.

That was 34 years ago. I cry to this day thinking of it and how it affected my father.

If I had 5 more minutes with Matchin, I’d give them to my dad. Who knows what those five minutes would do for him?

Could he have made it to the vet? Probably not.

Maybe he’d know that, and would spend those final five minutes in pure happiness with his dog.

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