It’s a sad day—one of the hardest I’ve faced—as I say goodbye to my beloved guide dog. With a heavy heart and tearful eyes, I release her from her duty, sending her off to a new home, in hopes of a gentler, more comfortable, but still fun, life.
Now for the big reveal…
Many of you know that I don’t share my active guide dog’s name. For safety reasons, their working name remains private while they’re guiding me. But once they retire, I share it with pride and love. So, with that, I introduce you to my extraordinary retired service dog: Venus.
Before Venus, there was Maris—my fourth guide dog. She retired just before the world changed forever. I was on the waiting list for a new dog from three guide dog schools when news hit of a supposed “deadly virus” spreading across the globe. The U.S. went into lockdown. Naturally, guide dog schools shut down too.
I was at a crossroads. I could wait… or I could act.
This would be my fifth service dog. I knew what I needed—what behaviors I wanted and which ones I couldn’t accept. I had the knowledge, the patience, and the time. So, I thought, why not train my own service dog?
I began searching for breeders nearby, hoping to find a dog between one and two years old. One breeder had three candidates. A friend drove me an hour and a half to meet them.
The first two weren’t the right fit. Then out came a calm, malleable, and incredibly majestic German Shepherd dog. I felt a connection the moment we met. She didn’t flinch when I waved my cane in front of her. For a dog who had never left the kennel grounds, that calm confidence was remarkable.
There was an instant bond.
Her name was Venus. And she was mine.
I brought Venus home, curled up at my feet in the car—her first time in a vehicle. She had to learn everything from scratch. Housebreaking was step one. Fortunately, she was a quick learner. I taught her house manners and introduced her to my neighborhood on a leash, all while traveling with my cane.
Then came the real test.
I set my cane aside and asked her to guide me.
I put her in a harness and picked up the handle, putting my full trust in her for the first time. It was terrifying yet gratifying, to see all my hard work pay off. I got a few bumps and bruises along the way, but slowly, and surely, we figured it out.
She became my eyes. My partner. My freedom.
Venus guided me through the streets of Denver, into businesses, parks, and everywhere I went, and eventually across the country and around the world. Together we traveled to cities like Los Angeles, New York City, Minneapolis and eventually to Switzerland and Italy.
But she wasn’t just a guide. She was my companion. My friend. With a name like Venus, goddess of love, how could she be anything else?
She taught me to love deeper than I ever had before. She brought joy, laughter, and play into my life—chasing balls in the backyard, tugging ropes with a huge doggy wag and a grin, playing hide and seek with her favorite toy or treat. Her delight was contagious.
Around her fifth year, something changed. She began hesitating before walks. At first, I didn’t understand. But after several vet visits, the truth became clear: Venus had elbow dysplasia and arthritis in both front legs. The pain was growing, and there was no cure—only management.
I explored every treatment, every method I could find. But nothing brought her lasting relief.
Then life threw us another change. I moved from our home with the fenced yard to an apartment in a new city—walkable, but without space for her to be free. She couldn’t run inside on the hard wood floors, guide more than three blocks without pain, and couldn’t even enjoy playing in the yard. I saw a once happy dog leave as her body failed her.
My heart broke. Over and over again.
She was only six. Too young to be this restricted. Too young to feel this old.
After months of soul-searching, through countless tears and long talks with friends, I made the heart-wrenching decision to let her go. Venus needed what I could no longer provide.
Two days ago, I placed her in the car with her new foster mom. I kissed her goodbye, held her close, and told her how much I loved her. I promised her a new chapter filled with joy and love—and no more responsibility.
Letting her go was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I know she will thrive again.
Venus, thank you, for all your work guiding your companionship and your love, and for all the laughter and joy. You guided me through the world, and now, I carry you forever in my heart. Wherever you go next, may you be cherished, as deeply as you deserve. I love you, sweet girl.
— Forever your human Libbi