I lost my dog this week.   To some this may seem trivial, to others a true division of oneself from another being.  For me, I’m with the later.  My dog, Sadie, was a Jack Russell from hell and heaven; I was her heaven, and my husband her hell.  She was a kindred spirit who came into my life just when I truly needed someone to reflect all of my positives and negatives back at me.  I purchased her on the side of the road and hid her in my dorm room for months until summer break.

For 14 years, she licked my tears, reminded me not to be so serious, and loved me when I felt undeserving and incapable. She taught me that sometimes, it is just plain necessary to be a bitch, and that’s okay.  She had a raging feud with my husband and would urinate on his slippers if ever she felt shafted, then turn around and snuggle him in bed if he were ill.

So when the time came to ease her into the next world, it was the easiest decision to end her pain, and the hardest to hold her as she passed.  Not only did my favorite friend to roll my eyes with leave, but with her went the last daily reminder of who I was, and how far I have come.

I sat in my mom van outside the Vet ER, delaying going home.  I needed that time to loudly grieve before I saw my three boys. She wasn’t “their” dog, but she had been with them since birth.  I wasn’t sure what their reaction would be and how to handle it. After 20 minutes, I ventured home.

I pulled into the drive listening to 90s on 9 XM with Downtown Julie Brown and the top song in 1996, Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men, One Sweet Day… geez o’ peats… that did not help.

Entering my home, silence hit me and the house was clean.  A huge piece of lasagna sat on the table with one fork and 5 large slices of birthday cake were thawing on the counter.  My boys, were expecting, a mess.  My husband sat next to me and Malcolm, my son in the middle, sat with Wheelz on the other side.  All declared how sorry they were as I drowned myself in food, and they quickly began small talk to make me feel better:

Wheelz: “I am sorry mom.  She was a good dog, old but good.”

Malcolm: “How did you know she was in pain?”

Me: “She was squinting dear, and sometimes she would flinch as though something was hurting.”

Malcolm: “Oh yeah, I saw her flinch too.  That’s why I tried not to hit her with my bike.”

Wheelz: “Look mom, I wrote you a letter to cheer you up.  More than I have ever wrote (turning to Malcolm) I don’t even do that in school! For Real!”

Wheelz: “Mom don’t cry.  I know your sad and worried, but don’t worry. She is not going to feel it when she burns.”

Malcolm (hanging his chin to chest and turning to his brother): “I don’t think that was nice.”

Wheelz: “Yes it was.  I know she is worried about it. I was.”

Malcolm: “Hey mom, I drew a picture of our house.  Here’s our house and a heart for love.  And Sadie, cause we miss her.  And this is you, crying!”

By the time I entered my pasta and sugar coma, I could not stop laughing.  Sure I was still in the depths of my new grief, but the boys’ innocence and desire to pull me from gloom warmed my heart.  However strange their words, the hidden context was clear: we know you are hurting and we love you.

The following day, my 18 month old, Stewey, picked up my phone and lit the screen.  Staring back at him was my first attempt at parenting.  Wrapped in a white blanket warm from the dryer, her black eyes still pierce through me with a what’s next? retort.

In his breathy toddler tones he whispered, “Awww, she toe tyoot!”

“Yes, baby. She was.”