Last night I went to a wake. It was pretty standard. We gathered telling stories of times past. We grazed off a table full of deviled eggs and crust-less sandwiches. We celebrated the life of the deceased. The difference between this wake and others I’ve attended? It was for a dog.
Now, before you roll your eyes, let me tell you this wasn’t just any dog. It had been the constant companion of a homebound person for 14 years, so it’s death marked a terrible loss in the life of its owner. So we gathered together to share in the grief and celebrate the joy that the little animal had shared with its owner.
As part of the ceremony, we went around the room and said, out loud, the name of a pet that we had loved and lost. That got me thinking about Annie.
Annie was fearless –she and my other two dogs kept watch over my house in Phoenix, day and night. But when a couple of gang-related murder victims were dumped less than a block from us, I decided it was going to take more than three dogs to keep me safe in that place. I headed home, back to Carrollton.
Of course, I had to bring the dogs with me. I scouted the alley for an old mattress that hadn’t been set on fire and put it in the back of the truck, with a camper shell on top. The dogs hopped in, tails wagging, eager for the journey. We took off across the wide nation.
Every now and again, as we drove, I looked back in the rearview mirror, wondering how the dogs were doing. Often, Annie had her head out the camper shell window, nose up and sniffing, searching the air for something new and wondrous.
Annie’s favorite thing in the world was to retrieve tennis balls from the depths of the lake. Annie lived the life of a queen for the better part of 13 years. Finally, her face was frosted white and she slowed down, no longer chasing the other dogs through the woods.
One day, Annie couldn’t put weight on her front foot. I took her to the vet. It was what I feared. Cancer. It had eaten up her shoulder until there wasn’t any bone left. The vet said her options were limited- amputation, which she didn’t recommend for a 13-year- old dog, or have her put down. I decided, as long as Annie was enjoying life, as long as she was still clear-eyed, that I’d nurse her along. Annie came home.
After that, our walks slowed as she tottered along behind me down to the lake, trying to keep up on three legs. One golden afternoon, my nephew Layne was practicing for baseball tryouts and he hit a home run out across the water. The out-fielders groaned, thinking the ball was lost. Annie hit the water and swam out across the lake to retrieve the ball. Everyone cheered as she brought it back. But the effort took a lot out of her.
The next morning she couldn’t walk at all, so I called the vet’s office and made the appointment to have her put to sleep.
The next morning, I didn’t cry when I went and let the dogs out. I didn’t cry when big Sophie frisked out of the pen and Annie struggled to her feet to meet me. I knew in my heart I had made the right decision. I didn’t cry when I lifted her gently into the cab of the truck, or when I gave her a tennis ball to have with her on the ride. All that time, I didn’t shed a tear.
But when I pulled out on the blacktop road and started to pick up speed, Annie lifted her head and started to sniff, finding new and wondrous things on the warm spring air. Her ears, still glossy and black, moved in the wind. She was eager for the journey. Annie was suddenly so full of life that the thought of putting her down filled my throat with bitter tears.
We pulled into the vet’s parking lot. I called the vet on my cell phone to tell her we were there. I stayed with Annie, holding her grizzled old head in my lap. She trusted me as much as she ever did, and that trust was breaking my heart.
That’s when the angel came. He didn’t have wings. He was just a man… lean and lanky, like an old cowboy. He was dressed in jeans with a silver-dollar belt buckle. He spoke to me like he knew me. “It sure is hard to lose a dog.” I looked up at him, eyes puffy. I nodded. He reached into the truck and petted Annie. He spoke again, his voice unsure. “I had the prettiest little heeler mixes. They’d run along behind me when we’d ride horses in the parade.” As he talked, his eyes lit up with the memory of those dogs.
Then he stopped talking and his eyes got red. “It was hard losing them.” We sat together for a quiet minute, both of us comforting an old dog, sharing our grief. I cried without shame. Then he took my hand in his and squeezed it. “It’s going to be all right.” He said in a clear voice.
And it was.