Mr. Handyman

One evening in 2007, Workday's founder, Dave Duffield, shared a heartfelt story with me about his Miniature Schnauzer, Maddie. While playing in the living room, Dave and his wife made her a promise: if they ever had the means, they would use it to help companion animals and the people who love them, so others could experience the same joy they felt with Maddie.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the depth of the love Dave expressed for Maddie. It was a kind of love that went beyond the affection I had known with the many dogs who had been part of my life.

Years later, I now sit in the quiet darkness with our beloved Shih-Poo, Melvin, wrestling with the knowledge that, come morning, the vet will arrive at our home. The stillness of the night is broken only by the soft chirping of crickets in the canyon. Moonlight pours over us as we sit together on a bench along the trail, sharing our final hours.

Not long before, Melvin’s quiet cries had woken me from sleep. I looked at my phone, it was just after midnight. I slipped out of bed without disturbing my wife and carried Melvin gently into my office. After putting on sweatpants and a jacket, I picked him up again, and we stepped out into the cool night air.

I remembered how, when my children were small, a ride in the stroller always seemed to soothe them when they were restless. I thought of the stroller I had bought for my wife for Christmas—the one she used to take Melvin on walks when his arthritis made it too painful for him to walk. It seemed fitting to take him on one last journey through all his favorite places in Del Mar before the morning came.

Our first stop was the Crest Trail. As we entered, I lifted Melvin out of the stroller, cradling his fragile body in my arms. I placed him near the bushes he used to love sniffing, letting him take in the familiar scents one last time. When I set him down on the trail, his paws brushed the sandstone, but he no longer had the strength to walk. I picked him up and carried him to a nearby bench, where we sat under the stars.

In that quiet moment, Melvin looked deep into my eyes. His black eyes, illuminated by the moon, held a wisdom and love that went beyond words. It was then that I truly understood the boundless, unconditional love my wife shared with Melvin.

His soft whimpering reminded me it was time to move on. As we left the trail, we encountered a woman walking in the night. “What are you doing out so late?” she asked. I told her about Melvin—that tomorrow, he would cross the rainbow bridge, and I wanted him to visit all the places in Del Mar that brought him joy. Her eyes filled with tears, and I found myself comforting her, sharing how full of love Melvin’s life had been, especially with my wife, Barb.

We continued to my wife’s best friend JoAnn’s house. Her dog, Gino, had been one of Melvin’s favorite companions, and Melvin was the only dog ever allowed inside her house for special treats. JoAnn always said Melvin reminded her of her own dog, Sparky, who had passed years before. I walked Melvin down her driveway so he could smell the familiar trees and cobblestones one last time.

Next, we made our way to 11th Street. Melvin fell asleep in the stroller as I pushed him along. When we reached the cliffs at the end of the street, I lifted him out to feel the ocean breeze. We sat on a bench, the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea surrounding us. The moonlight continued to bathe his face, reflecting in his eyes as if it had accompanied us on this final journey.

Two days earlier, my wife had returned home after spending time with her father, who was in hospice care. During her absence, Melvin’s health had declined. He had developed diabetes, and I had started giving him insulin twice a day. I tried everything to keep him eating, sitting with him and feeding him by hand. But I knew he was holding on for her—to share a few more moments with the person who loved him most.

Melvin had lived long enough for Barb to be with him again. Her love for him was pure and unconditional, just as it is for everyone in her life. JoAnn often says Barb is “pure love,” and in watching her with Melvin, I saw the truth in that.

Our last stop was Powerhouse Park, where I let Melvin feel the mist-covered grass beneath his paws. We sat together one final time on a bench, and I fought back tears. I thought of my role in our family—the fixer, the one who makes things right. I was Mr. Handyman. But now, the most precious being in my wife’s life lay in my arms, and I couldn’t fix him. The helplessness and pain weighed on me more than I could bear.

We returned home just as the sky began to lighten. Exhausted, I lay down on the couch with Melvin still asleep in the stroller beside me. But at 5:30 AM, his cries woke me, and I asked Barb to sit with him while I tried to rest.

I was awakened by Barb’s soft voice, telling me the vet had arrived. Together, we sat on the patio as the vet gently explained what was to come. He reassured us that Melvin would feel no pain. My wife held Melvin close, tears streaming down her face as she whispered her love to him. When the second shot was administered, Melvin peacefully fell asleep in her arms.

As Barb laid him on the blanket, the vet offered his condolences, leaving us alone in the quiet. I held her as she cried, knowing we had done the right thing, yet her heart was shattered.

Now, two weeks later, I still struggle with the ache of not being able to fix Melvin. But this Sunday, I found solace as a guest speaker at our church reflected on Matthew 5:4: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” He explained that the person that tries to fix grief only walks away feeling good about themselves.

He said, “We are all awkward around grief, because we don’t know what to do with grief. Because you can’t fix it. Can I say that again, you can’t fix grief. What you can do is obey scripture and weep with those who weep. You show up and be there and that’s enough.”

He explained that “We don’t minister to other people for us to feel good. We minister to other people because we love them.” He reminded us that Jesus, before raising Lazarus from the dead, first wept. In that moment, I realized my role is not to fix, but to be present, just as Christ is present for us. He understands our grief, and He weeps with us.

So now I sit with my wife and comfort her with God's undying love.

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