Yesterday afternoon, our week took an unexpected turn when my brother’s wife texted with news about Abby, the dog. Our former pet’s health, which has been tenuous for the past month, was rapidly going downhill. An MRI showed a large mass on one of her ventricles, and the formerly perky, still quirky pooch was in heart failure. Did I want to come to the vet clinic, my sis-in-law wondered, to say good-bye before she took her home to die?
Hiram and I hurried over, arriving at the same time as her present owners. The vet brought the little doggie out, her tiny sides heaving with the struggle of breathing. It was obvious that the trip home would be a further misery to her. So my sister-in-law, who is soft-hearted toward all critters, but especially for one small, shallow, barky, and lovable red daschund, kindly decided to put the suffering dog to sleep.
But not until Abby, who loved food almost as much as she loved my sister-in-law, had one last meal. One whiff of the mound of soft dog food, and the little glutton rose to the occasion. She ate ravenously, with great gulps, licking the plate clean and lapping water afterwards.
She was curled up on my sister-in-law’s lap, as happy as a dog could be, while the vet administered the meds. Through our tears, we watched her breathing grow quiet and her body relax. Silently and sweetly, she slipped away.
Good-bye, silly dog
who caught grasshoppers and ate them,
who loved to lick the sweat off Hiram’s head after he went jogging,
who ate anything that hit the floor,
who hoarded chew bones to taunt her pack mates,
who loved playing more than napping,
who loved snuggling more than playing,
who loved eating more than snuggling,
who made us laugh the minute before you went away.
May the dog food be never-ending wherever you are today.
