Open letter
Dear Belle,
I'm sorry, girl. I really am. Please let me start by saying that. If I could have been there with you today, I would have; if I had gotten more than two hours' notice, I would have been on a plane. If it's possible for you to know things like this now, I'm sure you do. It kills me that I couldn't be there for your last hours, and it kills me that I won't be able to keep the promise I made to you the last time I left. "I'll see you soon," I said, kissing your scabby, smelly head. "I'll see you soon."
Belle, girl, I hope one day I'll get to see you again; I guess it just won't be as soon as we had hoped.
We met a little over fourteen years ago. You introduced yourself by grabbing onto my shoelace with your teeth and pulling as hard as you could; you were so excited that you peed on the floor. They had bobbed your tail a bit too short -- more than usual on a cocker spaniel -- so that when you tried to wag, your whole body shook. I was smitten. That night, after we took you home, you fell asleep as I held you; you were so small that you fit in my cupped hands. You were so small back then that we had to watch you as you went outside, fearful that the neighborhood cats might come after you. You were so small that you couldn't make it down the back steps; someone always had to carry you in those first few days. I did it once, and dropped you on your head. You seemed okay... but I'm really sorry about that.
You were so small, but you grew, and as you grew, we grew to love you more and more as we came to realize that you were anything but a typical dog. Sure, you did the usual "dog" things that both delighted and infuriated us -- swimming in the backyard pool (delighted); shredding an entire semester's worth of my mom's college work (infuriated); unrolling an entire roll of toilet paper into a "nest" on the bathroom floor (delighted me and Beth; infuriated Mom and Dad) -- but for all the canine antics you pulled (remember the time you knocked over the Christmas tree? Or rolled in the stagnant runoff water Dad was draining from the pool into the backyard and then came in and rubbed yourself all over the family room sofa? Or ate half of Beth's Halloween candy?), there were dozens of things about you that made you much more than a mischievous court jester.
You were so smart, Belle. Really, you were. You learned to "talk" to us by mimicking the noises we made. You learned to "sit" in a single evening. You were an expert manipulator and a skillful reader of subtle clues; you knew how to finagle your way into an extra treat and exactly at what phase in the dinner preparations some morsel of food might fall from the heavens. You knew what you wanted, and you stopped at nothing to get it.
But you weren't just smart and cunning, lady; you were so much more than that. You were the faithful companion who slept at my feet every night for the better part of eight years. You were the joyful friend who welcomed me home with excited yelps when I came back from school in the afternoons. You weathered my parents' divorce and mourned my mother's departure, perching for days on the family room sofa, looking at the back door, waiting for her to come back. You got through it, just like we did. You were always there with a sympathetic glance or a giant lick to the face; you were a friend, Belle -- in the best way you knew how to be.
Of course, Belle, you got old. We all do. Your health started fading about five years ago, I guess. Your hearing started fading, your skin got scabbier and greasier, and a strange growth showed up on your neck. You spent more and more of your days sleeping; about four years ago, I wrote about how you had started to lose your confidence -- how you started to fear the jump from the floor to the sofa. By the end, you were completely deaf and on your way to being blind. Still, though, you were the same old Belle; queen of the pack, lady of the household, an elderly aristocrat maintaining her pride even through the indignities of old age. I think what happened today -- when they took you in to that last appointment at the vet -- was the right thing for you, Belle. Dad said you couldn't stand up; it was only right that you died with at least some of your dignity intact.
I will miss you, girl. I will miss you trotting to the gate the next time I come home; I will miss fighting with you for space in the easy chair in the family room; I will miss you plopping in the middle of the Christmas decorations when we put up the tree next year, or rooting around in the mass of wrapping paper on Christmas morning -- you always loved Christmas, girl, even more than you seemed to love Thanksgiving; I will miss you wriggling all over with excitement when Grandma comes to visit and I will miss you meting out much-needed discipline to the cat. I will miss seeing you as a little black dot, sniffing back and forth along the property line behind the house. I will miss your friendship. I will miss your love. I will miss your presence in our family. We are all richer for having known you.
I loved you almost as much as I love my family, and liked you better than I like most people. You were a good dog, Belle. I don't know what more to say than that.
Sleep well, friend. I'll miss you.
Love always,
Allison
I'm sorry, girl. I really am. Please let me start by saying that. If I could have been there with you today, I would have; if I had gotten more than two hours' notice, I would have been on a plane. If it's possible for you to know things like this now, I'm sure you do. It kills me that I couldn't be there for your last hours, and it kills me that I won't be able to keep the promise I made to you the last time I left. "I'll see you soon," I said, kissing your scabby, smelly head. "I'll see you soon."
Belle, girl, I hope one day I'll get to see you again; I guess it just won't be as soon as we had hoped.
We met a little over fourteen years ago. You introduced yourself by grabbing onto my shoelace with your teeth and pulling as hard as you could; you were so excited that you peed on the floor. They had bobbed your tail a bit too short -- more than usual on a cocker spaniel -- so that when you tried to wag, your whole body shook. I was smitten. That night, after we took you home, you fell asleep as I held you; you were so small that you fit in my cupped hands. You were so small back then that we had to watch you as you went outside, fearful that the neighborhood cats might come after you. You were so small that you couldn't make it down the back steps; someone always had to carry you in those first few days. I did it once, and dropped you on your head. You seemed okay... but I'm really sorry about that.
You were so small, but you grew, and as you grew, we grew to love you more and more as we came to realize that you were anything but a typical dog. Sure, you did the usual "dog" things that both delighted and infuriated us -- swimming in the backyard pool (delighted); shredding an entire semester's worth of my mom's college work (infuriated); unrolling an entire roll of toilet paper into a "nest" on the bathroom floor (delighted me and Beth; infuriated Mom and Dad) -- but for all the canine antics you pulled (remember the time you knocked over the Christmas tree? Or rolled in the stagnant runoff water Dad was draining from the pool into the backyard and then came in and rubbed yourself all over the family room sofa? Or ate half of Beth's Halloween candy?), there were dozens of things about you that made you much more than a mischievous court jester.
You were so smart, Belle. Really, you were. You learned to "talk" to us by mimicking the noises we made. You learned to "sit" in a single evening. You were an expert manipulator and a skillful reader of subtle clues; you knew how to finagle your way into an extra treat and exactly at what phase in the dinner preparations some morsel of food might fall from the heavens. You knew what you wanted, and you stopped at nothing to get it.
But you weren't just smart and cunning, lady; you were so much more than that. You were the faithful companion who slept at my feet every night for the better part of eight years. You were the joyful friend who welcomed me home with excited yelps when I came back from school in the afternoons. You weathered my parents' divorce and mourned my mother's departure, perching for days on the family room sofa, looking at the back door, waiting for her to come back. You got through it, just like we did. You were always there with a sympathetic glance or a giant lick to the face; you were a friend, Belle -- in the best way you knew how to be.
Of course, Belle, you got old. We all do. Your health started fading about five years ago, I guess. Your hearing started fading, your skin got scabbier and greasier, and a strange growth showed up on your neck. You spent more and more of your days sleeping; about four years ago, I wrote about how you had started to lose your confidence -- how you started to fear the jump from the floor to the sofa. By the end, you were completely deaf and on your way to being blind. Still, though, you were the same old Belle; queen of the pack, lady of the household, an elderly aristocrat maintaining her pride even through the indignities of old age. I think what happened today -- when they took you in to that last appointment at the vet -- was the right thing for you, Belle. Dad said you couldn't stand up; it was only right that you died with at least some of your dignity intact.
I will miss you, girl. I will miss you trotting to the gate the next time I come home; I will miss fighting with you for space in the easy chair in the family room; I will miss you plopping in the middle of the Christmas decorations when we put up the tree next year, or rooting around in the mass of wrapping paper on Christmas morning -- you always loved Christmas, girl, even more than you seemed to love Thanksgiving; I will miss you wriggling all over with excitement when Grandma comes to visit and I will miss you meting out much-needed discipline to the cat. I will miss seeing you as a little black dot, sniffing back and forth along the property line behind the house. I will miss your friendship. I will miss your love. I will miss your presence in our family. We are all richer for having known you.
I loved you almost as much as I love my family, and liked you better than I like most people. You were a good dog, Belle. I don't know what more to say than that.
Sleep well, friend. I'll miss you.
Love always,
Allison