My good and faithful blind dog Chuck died Christmas Day. He woke up hurting. I knew that his hurt, at 17, was final and it was mine to heal. First, we took a walk through the Tennesee snow. Chuck ate some snow, sniffed a few spots other dogs had marked and, for a moment, I thought it would be a good day. Then he quivered with a sudden bout of pain. And I knew again what my heart already knew--Chuck needed me to do for him. We wrapped Chuck in a quilt for his journey. I held him tight as we drove to the vet. There, in a tiny room, Chuck fell asleep, then slipped away with his head cradled in my hand, surrounded by Big Guy, Daisy and Birdie. We drove back to Grandma's house through softly falling snow. And I thought, now Chuck can finally see the snowflakes.
No comments:
Post a Comment