Wrigley: My Dad’s Forever Friend August 6, 2025
“Several years ago — probably around 2010 — I was working at the Nebraska Humane Society as an Animal Control Officer. Toward the end of each shift, we’d begin to migrate from the road back to the shelter. Once there, we’d set up the animals we’d picked up, finish our paperwork, and sanitize our equipment.
When all our tasks were done, we often walked through the stray kennels, sitting with any dogs who looked like they could use quiet snuggles or treats. This was usually my favorite part of the day, especially after shifts filled with grief, frustration, or sometimes horror. Comforting the dogs brought comfort to us, too.
From the moment I started the job, I was determined to convince my dad to adopt a dog. He had been without one for a while after his last, Ralphie — a miniature dachshund — had to be put down due to deteriorating back problems.
Ralphie was probably the last kind of dog you’d expect my dad to own. My dad wasn’t a tall man, but he was strong, with broad shoulders and big arms. He carried himself with confidence and could strike up a conversation with just about anyone.
He was kind, thoughtful, and protective — but definitely not someone you’d want to cross or cut off in traffic. So just picture this big, tough guy walking around the neighborhood with a tiny wiener dog.
At home, Ralphie would crawl under my dad’s shirt and snuggle until bedtime. It was affectionately pathetic. I knew how much my dad missed having a dog, and I was determined to find him one that didn’t have itty-bitty legs.
As a kid, I grew up with Barney, a Labrador/Golden Retriever mix who looked like an oversized yellow Lab. Barney was the most laid-back, friendly dog you could imagine. He went everywhere with me and was my companion from age two until he passed away when I was 16. That’s the kind of dog I had in mind for my dad—one I knew would take the least amount of convincing.
One night, as I quietly walked through the stray kennels, I came across a sweet female yellow Lab sitting silently in the back of her kennel. Her eyes were soft but sad. I opened the door and sat inside; she crawled over and laid her head in my lap.
Surely, I thought, someone was coming for her. She seemed like someone’s beloved pet. But when I checked her kennel card, I discovered she had been left in an overnight drop-box a couple of days earlier. No paperwork. No background. No one had come forward.
I called my dad immediately, told him about her, and asked if he wanted me to leave a note of interest. After some grumbling, I finally convinced him. When her hold time ended and no one claimed her, she was placed up for adoption—and my dad got the call.
We waited in one of the training rooms while a staff member brought her out. Without hesitation, she ran straight to my dad. She walked at his side like no one else was in the room. We all just stood there, jaws dropped. I knew I was good at doggie matchmaking, but this — this was my best work.
That day, she came home with my dad and was named Wrigley.
From then on, every morning, Wrigley hopped into the truck with my dad and rode to work with him. She had her own setup at his office at the train ramp, and everyone came to know and love her. She was gentle, smart, athletic, and calm. She loved to swim, play fetch — basically all the things labs love.
In the evenings, my dad would often bring her to the local nursing home to visit my grandma. The residents adored her. She brought joy everywhere she went.
In 2020, my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. Still, Wrigley remained by his side. By now well into her teens, she could no longer jump into the truck and sometimes struggled even to climb the steps. But she never gave up. She was always lying next to him.
This next part I won’t get through without tears, but it captures the kind of bond between a human and a dog that words can’t quite describe.
The day my dad passed, Wrigley was lying beside the hospital bed we had moved into his dining room. We knew the time was close. He hadn’t regained consciousness in hours.
I was sitting on the couch facing him when Wrigley suddenly stood up and gently placed her head in his lap. We all went silent. She stood like that for several minutes. I believe, with everything in me, that she was speaking to him — telling him in her own way that it was okay to go.
Then, Wrigley began to whimper. She ran over to me, trembling from head to toe like I had never seen before. I held her and cried with her. Moments later, my dad took his final breaths.
I’m convinced Wrigley saw his soul leave his body — and she grieved with us.
My dad loved his Wrigley girl. He knew how much she loved him, too. Before he passed, he made one final request: that Wrigley be humanely euthanized when the time came and that her ashes be placed at his side.
On Wrigley’s last day on earth, my brother and I treated her to a steak dinner. We loved on her, let her play the best she could, and thanked her for being such a good girl — for comforting our dad in ways we never could. She blessed all of us with her love.
Together, we took her to the vet, and as she passed, I whispered: “Now, go get Dad. Tell him I love him.”
Just as my dad requested, Wrigley’s ashes were placed in his casket — right by his side, along with Barney and Ralphie.
We’ll never know where Wrigley came from or what circumstances brought her to the Nebraska Humane Society. But I will forever be grateful to them. They truly make miracles happen every day — not just for the animals, but for the people who love them.”
– Jordan
(150/150)
