It was an early November day. The World Series wasn't yet over, there was one last game before the Yankees won. I spent the afternoon watching re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond and organizing my newborn son's baby pictures in an album.
We knew something wasn't right, but we didn't yet know that anything was WRONG. There was a doctor's appointment later in the afternoon, followed by a series of tests. Then the word CANCER. A phone call telling me that I needed to say my goodbyes. It all happened in a blur.
She came home later that night. We wanted her home with us. She could barely walk up the stairs, my Dad and brother carried her. It was raining lightly. I was in my pajamas. She was on heavy doses of morphine to kill the pain. You could see the vacancy in her eyes.
She laid down on the living room rug and I laid beside her. I stroked her velvet ears. Her long nose. Her silken gold fur. I told her that she was the best dog ever. I hugged her. I kissed her head. I knew that would be the last time for such affections.
The doctor came to the house the next morning to perform the procedure. I was not there. She left us around 9 AM. I looked up at the sky and and memorized how it looked.
Some people don't believe in mourning the loss of their pet. To them, it's a replaceable animal. I feel bad for those people. They are missing out on an amazing opportunity to experience the wonder of unconditional love.
Two years ago tomorrow I lost you. And not a day goes by that I don't think of you.
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