Thursday, Dec 21, 06

This is the hard part.  Being inevitable doesn’t make it easier.  The easy part is making sure there is fresh food and water every morning, making sure the blankets are clean and soft, making sure that you spend time every few hours patting the head and talking kindly to the little creature who is totally dependent on you.  Even having to climb out of bed at 3 am, suit up in boots and sweaters and go outside to pee is the easy part. 

Nurture and care of this little soul has been my priority every day for more than a decade.  She suffered below zero temps as well as one hundred degree ones.  She was a brave little trooper climbing into fully loaded cars traveling 10 hours or more a day as we moved across the width of the country—twice. 

When we got to the beach, she became a puppy again, skipping and hopping and wanting nothing more than to sniff rocks and see her doggy (and many human) friends.  And, in fact, I moved here in part because of her—with my own business I could bring her with me or work from home, and the more temperate climate was better for her somewhat delicate system. 

I marvel at how she loved everything and everyone, always excited when company came over, never aggressive,  always grateful.  Her ears perked at the sounds of babies or children, and she was instinctively protective and gentle around them.  In Rochester, she literally lived the other six days of the week in anticipation of our Sunday morning walks in Webster Park. 

I tried to do the best for her, even today.  And I feel guilty about times that I made her wait or promised her a walk and didn’t follow through.  And always she loved me and was happy just to be in my presence, no matter what I didn’t deliver.  Thankfully, this is the solstice--the "shortest" day of the year, the darkest day, and-- customarily and theoretically--tomorrow a new, brighter cycle begins.   This is still the hard part.
 

I miss her this first night and will miss her many, many nights.  As I type I’m listening for her shake as she gets up from her living room bed and for the click of her nails on the kitchen floor.  My eyes automatically turned toward her blankets as I walked through the front door.  This morning’s breakfast is still in her dish. But the house is quiet and cool, only half full, feeling completely empty.   And she’ll never be here again.