Small Strokes Big Oaks

Our dog, Penny, and me

Well, I just read this op-ed in the Chicago Tribune from a man who recently had to put his dog down. And I bawled my eyes out. Don’t click through unless you have Kleenex handy:

For Frank was still young when our children were in their teens. Though we were not immune to rebellion and clashes with which families struggle, we escaped the bleak pain when Frank, in the nick of time, would appear in our midst with a stolen sandal, or a wagging question, so that 17-year-old Janet would rush headlong to hug him, with Mike commencing the tug of war, and Jackie resting her head on his broad back, Frank wagging the entire while, saving us from can’t-take-it-back words, compelling, instead, our expressions of love for each other through him, the sunshine-colored catalyst. Always Frank, removing the risks of showing our feelings.

And I write this now for my children, for my neighbors, for Hans who began each morning shouting for the “big goof,” who answered by standing up on the fence, and getting his ears massaged over the rail. And for everyone else in Frank’s world, especially the dog people, like Joyce, whom I don’t have to tell that in the final weeks, he kept the good fight. He limped, panted, licked where it hurt, wagged when he was medicated, pinched or probed — wagged even while turning away from his water bowl.

At the animal hospital last Monday, I held him close, murmuring his name against his ear. When the vet knelt over him, I knew I’d lose it altogether if he thumped that tail.

But he didn’t because he knew I would.

*sniffle*

*sniffle, sniffle*

*outright sobbing*