Loved and gone

We got her when I was 23; she was almost three months old.

We said goodbye when I was 38; she was almost 15.

I helped her grow and made her feel safe. She did the same for me.

She spent her last moments on her favorite spot: the loveseat facing the door to the screen porch.

I scratched her left ear as the sedative took hold. She pressed her head into mine, like she always did during a good scratch—hard, as if she couldn’t get close enough to me. And she kept it there until the vet was finished, and our sweet pup drifted off to sweet relief.

“You did such a good job being our dog,” I whispered to her, over and over.

I’m still whispering it to her, even though she’s gone.

I just really need her to know.

 

 

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