She’s Gone

Here is a true story about the day I said goodbye to my furry friend.

The lights in the room had dimmed. My little dog was wrapped in a blue blanket. She looked like a delicate fawn cradled in the vets’s arms.

Normally she scurried at my feet with her tail wagging, but tonight not single part of her twitched with excitement. She didn’t sniff every corner of the new room instead the vet placed her on the counter where she laid limp.

“Walk?” I said hoping she’d get excited. She lifted her head, but the weight of it seemed too much for her so she dropped it back down.

“Treat?” I said, but her eyes glanced around indifferently.

“Lucy?” I said her name, but nothing.

She stood shifting her body because her belly hurt. Her head was hunched over and her ears drooped to the side.

This is it, I thought to myself.

I pressed my face against her back feeling her soft fur with my cheek. She nestled her snout into the crevice of my elbow exposing her neck to me. For years, I wondered if she did this because she loved the warmth of my clothes against her snout or if she knew that I’d scratch her neck.

“I’m sorry, ” I said feeling the soft fur of her neck between my fingers.

The vet returned with two syringes.

This can’t be it, I thought.

“The first injection is an anesthetic,” said the vet.

I hate letting go. 

The needle went into the catheter.

Please don’t die. 

The second syringe with pink liquid went in.

Who’s going to cry and howl when I leave home?

Tears lodged in my throat as her pupils dilated.

I’m not ready.

Her black pupils slowly stretched over her brown eyes.

“She’s gone,” said the vet.


Why the Dog is Staring


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