I picked up her bed and felt the warmth of her little body. She seemed heavier, too, as though the weight of all her years had settled in for one final time.
We went to the car, somberly and with purpose. A purpose I had wished to avoid though I knew I couldn’t.
She was gently set onto the floor of the car, still in her bed and I grimly started the vehicle for one last ride.
Just a few days before, she was doing most of the things she had always done. Life was in her eyes, a slight bounce in her step. A shadow to follow us whenever we were home. Always good for a laugh; always good for a pick-me-up when you needed it.
In fact, she was always good. One of the best.
We met years ago, somewhat unexpectedly. She introduced herself with excitement, so much so that she did something else she was good at: providing a small cleanup task at an inopportune moment.
But no matter. It was impossible to get angry at her. She had an innocence and joy that only the most humble of God’s creatures can possess. And she was a little reminder of how God must look at us sometimes.
How many times have I made a mess of something and didn’t even realize it? How much patience have I tested and how many unforced blunders could be traced back to me?
But with her, I always offered grace because she didn’t know any better. It’s a lesson for anyone. Our shortcomings can be overcome with patience and even a little grace.
Of course, she was far more than just a cause of minor trouble. She thought of herself as a guardian, jumping to a high place to survey what she thought was her domain, which, in a way, it was.
It was she who sat alone all day, probably wondering if the door would ever open again and she would see our faces. It was she who had to endure a strange home and once again wonder where we might be for weeks on end as we traveled someplace she couldn’t go.
And now she is going someplace I cannot go, and I hate it. I don’t want it, but it’s the only choice left.
The car, in its impersonal and mechanical way rolls inexorably toward our destination, and I feel just as mechanical as the vehicle because this moment is so personal for me and her.
For her part, she stays in the bed. For so many years, the mention of the word “ride” would perk her up and she’d bound for the nearest car. But she hasn’t heard any words for a while; age will do that. It just added to the little surprises in her life when she was snuck up upon.
She never complained.
On this ride, she didn’t explore the car. She didn’t go anywhere. She couldn’t. The days of patrolling the yard and yearning to see another landscape were done.
She just sat there looking at nothing.
That was what she had become that last few days; a passenger in life. No longer engaged. Age is cruel to everyone, and she was no exception. Pain had wracked her body and her breathing was shallow. It portended one thing.
The car came to a halt, and once again I felt the weight and the warmth as I brought her inside. A very kind young lady took some information and I headed into a room alone.
A moment later, she was given back to me and I was told to take as much time as I needed.
She didn’t know it of course, but she did. It was so like her.
As I held her one last time, I stroked her head and spoke calmly to her, even though I knew she couldn’t hear a thing. I tried to look into her eyes, but she just stared into middle distance, just as she had for the past few days.
That was the gift.
Age was stealing everything about her. Her hearing, her mobility, and now, her mind. There was no recognition in her eyes, just a wan look of hurt and confusion.
If she had had the usual spark in her eyes, I would not have been able to let her go. But I knew - even as she didn't - that her journey could continue no longer.
A kindly young man came in and gave her something to help her sleep, and a moment later that sleep became the end.
And now the house is strangely quieter. The spot where she laid all the time is just another part of the floor.
The little jobs I once had to care for her, feed her and clean up after her are no longer a part of my life.
And I hate that.
Mille McMuffin. A ridiculous dachshund with a ridiculous name.
But what a wonderful gift giver she was.
Right to the very end.
Very touching