The Best Dog Ever

Our final morning with Holly, who appears to be resting comfortably at the moment. She has not been able to eat in two and a half days and has been throwing up bile. She will not drink any water and can barely make it up the stairs. We’ve all cried with her – each one of us. Jeff, Taggart, Sage, me. I cannot believe she will not always be here with us.

I wonder what I’ll do with her bed. Where do I put it? And the food we just bought last week? Her medicine? To throw it all away seems cold and uncaring. But what to do?

We plan to take her to the vet in thirty minutes and to be with her when they give her the sedative overdose. I want her to know our presence and be reassured until the very last moment of her life here. We have known her unwavering presence for the past nine and a half years and we will give her ours until she no longer needs us.

We will tell Taggart she died today on her own. At six and a half, he does not understand the concept of putting her to sleep. He keeps asking, “Why would you kill her???” And the last thing we want is for him to hold us responsible for her passing. Sage keeps asking, “Mama, why you crying?” And all I can say is that I am sad about Holly, sad that she’s so sick.

We will have her cremated and bury her ashes deep in our backyard by Taggart’s log cabin. A quiet spot by the creek she loved to swim in and amongst the trees that provided shade after an unchaperoned jaunt through the neighborhood. The kids and I will make a headstone together that reads: “Holly Wolly Wumperkins: The Best Dog Ever”.

She will be near and not so far. A walk across the yard, over the bridge, through the woods. And we can visit her or pray or simply remember. A dog with a heart of gold. Missed dearly by a family with a hole in its communal heart; mourning the loss of her sweet soul and gentle presence, whose smiling eyes told the story.

She loved us. We loved her. We’ll never forget.