I thought we'd have more time. I thought maybe she could have made it to her 16th birthday. It was a long life, for a dog, but not nearly long enough for us. It happened so suddenly. One day, she's active and happy and full of energy. A couple days later, she's sick and not eating and having trouble breathing. In a sense, I'm glad that it was fast, because it means she didn't suffer long. It would have been selfish and cruel to make her live any longer like that, when there was nothing anyone could do for her. But we weren't prepared. The vet told us less than a month ago that it could happen like this, and you tell yourself that you'll get used to the idea. But there's no getting used to it. No matter how it happens, you still reel from the finality of it. It doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel right. And I've been struggling the past couple days with how to cope with the loss of her.
Powder was my bundle of joy. We have no children. Powder filled that role for us. She made life bright and vibrant and silly. She made coming home a celebration, with her little whines and barks and howls of excitement.
She made mealtimes an adventure, with my food often just an inch away from drooling snout. For nearly 16 years, she was my confidant and best friend and my partner in crime. We grew up together. My childhood memories are dotted with barks and chewed up shoelaces. Powder comforted me with doggy kisses and soft, downy fur when I was sad or sick. She used to wake me up by yapping at me in the mornings to feed her and take her for a walk, and if I didn't wake up right away, she'd leap onto the bed and scamper all over me. She used to stay with me in the bathroom for an hour or more while I bitterly applied psoriasis medicine to my skin. She slept on the kitchen floor as I cooked, or by my side while I knitted. She would howl if we were away too long. Powder was a protector for most of her life. She barked at strangers and growled at people who she thought might be hurting me. And she was so very smart. I never taught her a thing - every trick she learned, she taught herself. She used to be able to catch treats in her mouth, and figured out that if she stood up on her hind legs, she was almost sure to get what she wanted. She figured out how to open doors too, so that when my brother Jay came home, he'd find his bedroom door open with little doggy droppings all over the place. But she was such a sweet, loving dog. If you left the room, she would look for you. She always wanted to have someone close by. She was always happy to see us. She loved unconditionally. And I have a feeling that she knew her time was close, and I think she was trying to comfort me. I sat down on the couch with her, and she put her head on my lap, and touched me with her paw. I will never forget that moment, because I think it may be one of the most selfless things anyone has ever done for me.To think we almost didn't get her. To think we nearly passed her over for one of her brothers. She had a hernia on her belly, and my dad wasn't sure if we should choose her, because she wasn't perfect. Little did we know, she was perfect. Just the most perfect dog I could have ever hoped for. And we didn't have to choose her. With a lick to my nose and a nap in my lap, she chose us. And that's such a beautiful, wonderful thing.
I am heartbroken over the loss of her. Powder is one of the best things that has ever happened to me, and I am so very grateful that I had her as my dog. I take comfort in the knowledge that I did everything I could for her, and that I gave her a loving and dignified passing. But to say she is missed is a severe understatement. I don't even know if there's a word for how deeply I miss her. But I am still so grateful. Powder has given me nearly 16 years of joy, and my life has been so enriched by having her in my family. I love you so much, sweetheart. And thank you.
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