This was her last day. We played with her ball, gently, in the yard. Smelled the scents in the gentle breeze. The sun was gentle too. It was her last morning.
The vet joined us in the yard, and began her process.
I held her soft face in my hands, her body sleepy, her eyes glossy and tired, from the sedative working its magic. I just held her face while we lay together on the green grass in our yard, showing her my love for her, and whispering “I’ve got you.” Whispering, “I love you.” Whispering, “You’re such a good dog.” Whispering, “It’s okay to go.” And whispering, “I’ll see you next time.”
I didn’t bring a tissue. My tears and my snot were part of this unveiling. A moment so brief in time, yet felt as soft and expansive as her fur.
She was my friend. My companion. My healer.
The vet gave her the final medicine, while we lay on the grass together. My hands still holding her soft, peaceful face. Her breathing slowed, her softness became even softer.
And then she was gone.
Earlier this morning, my son was hopping on his bike for his ride to school when he said, “Maybe I’ll see Wanaka again whenever I die.” I like to think that is true for us all.
