a sort of eulogy

It isn’t something I can talk about easily. I loved (love!) her very much. I raised her, taught her to sit, stay, come, heel and “be quick.” She’s too old now, can barely walk. The vet says we’ve been lucky to have a lab last 16 years. I think we were lucky to have her a day.

I can’t write this without crying. She’s alone right now, in a sterile place and tomorrow she will be gone. I want to be with her so badly it hurts. I want to hold her paw while she drifts off to a peaceful, painless place, but I can’t and it’s not fair to her to keep her alive until I can.

The decision is mine to keep her ashes or let them go. I know that I want them, but it will be so strange that after 12 years of not living with me, she will live with me yet not. I’m not sure I could look at her urn everyday. Where would I put it? And how could I explain to her ashes that I forgot to say goodbye at Christmas? That I there was just too much to pack and too many people to say goodbye to and that she was in the kitchen still, lying down probably, her arthritis joints too painful to move her to the door, her hearing too faint know I was leaving.

I can’t say goodbye to the old dog I’ve love so much that I spent hours with treats in my hand making sure she understood my words, cuddled next to her at night and slipped covers over her in winter, forgave and cursed her with every trashcan she disheveled, screamed at and searched for her for hours when she would “wonder,” bathed and taught her to “shake” to dry herself and petted and petted and petted.

I loved that dog. I love you Megan.

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