Because we love you
I’ve scheduled your death and I feel just awful. I’m listening to you sleep, which isn’t hard to do because your snoring is much louder than before, and I already miss you.
I’ve watched you slip away from me for about six months, and every passing week it got harder and harder to look you in the eye. You looked tired and sad and even though you tried over and over to make us happy, we could see that you were getting ready to go.
I hate that tumor. I’ve watched it slowly choke you and take the life right out of you. Seen it take away the dog I loved so much for so long. I look at you and I see the same face I’ve looked at for eleven years and I hate that tumor.
You licked my hand the other night when I cried at your paws. I know that you’re telling me to let go but I don’t want to.
I don’t want to.
You have been my constant companion. When Matt first got his job, and travelled three out of the four weeks in a month, you were there for me. Kept me safe. Kept me sane. When kids came, you were surprisingly patient with them. I know you weren’t a fan, and probably would have preferred it if I never had any, but you took it in stride. They put capes on you, Mardi Gras beads, built you forts – and you sat there with your irritated face, while giving me a look that would say, “Seriously, lady? Seriously?”
But every day now, it’s a little worse. Going up stairs leaves you gasping and panting. You sleep more. You’re constantly yawning and licking your lips, giving the universal signs of stress and anxiety. You lay on the floor sometimes, instead of your bed because nothing is comfortable anymore.
But last week you ran like a puppy and while it left you gasping for air, you were so happy to have that ball and chase it, and for a split second I thought maybe we can keep you around, but who would that benefit? I can’t be selfish anymore. I love you too much to keep you suffering.
So on Thursday at 9:30, we will say our final goodbyes. I’ve loved you for eleven years. Eleven. You were the least adoptable dog at the shelter. You were scared of men, scared of cars, scared of yourself. You were covered in cigarette burns and had been starved. You didn’t know how to walk on a leash or sit, but you spoke to us. And you loved us. For eleven years you loved us.
And because you loved us, we will let you go out on your terms. At home, with Matt and me, and your power puff girls blanket. And we will tell you how much we love you and feed you all of the peanut butter and we will let you go.
Because we love you.
We love you.