I didn't want to hear "Puff the Magic Dragon". "Bambi" always makes me cry. I couldn't watch "Lion King" because I heard the father Lion died.
I knew when I came home from work. It was a heavy, long work week. I got home at 9:30 pm. She was always at the door to greet me, and if my varied schedule caught her unaware and napping she ran as quick as she could.
But I couldn't find her. I looked every where. Finally in the basement she slowly emerged. And I knew.
It was over.
18 years. And it was time. Whether I was ready or not.
We stayed up all night. She labored to breathe. They'd already drained her lungs once. First thing in the morning we headed to the vet. I stood outside in the freezing cold until they heard me knock and could let me in. But I couldn't do it. Then she struggled and fought, until I wrapped a favorite towel on the cold steel table.
And I listened to her struggle to breathe, and look up with those pleading eyes. But I wasn't strong enough, brave enough. I wasn't sure. It just didn't seem like it should be my choice. I don't deserve that much power. It wasn't my place.
But one look at her gums and the vet's reaction let me know it was all I could do. It was the best I could do. It was the one last thing, one last way I could let her know how much I loved her.
18 years. Over in just a few seconds.
I still miss her, probably always will. I can't help but cry even now as I write this.
She had a way of comfort, of healing. She always knew when I was sick, or tired. She could sense when I was sad, and always knew when to curl up on my lap. She listened well, and was rarely judgemental, although on a few occasions she caught me by surprise.
Her habits and mannerisms were so familiar they were almost my own. A comfortable rhythm born over 18 years of sharing the same space.
And so it is, saying goodby again, one year later.
And I still don't like goodbyes.
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