Rather than mourn the loss of what should have been a decade of additional years, God, in His mercy, is using this to drive home the importance of gratitude for what I am given.
If you would, let me share with you a letter I wrote to her Saturday morning, before going to Upstate Vet. Hospital to bring her home to us one last time.
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June 23, 2012
My Dear, Sweet, Alicia Ruby -
Even when you were alive, I know you couldn’t read. Somehow, this makes my broken heart feel a little better, though.
You were only in our lives for two years, but the utter joy you gave us, your gentle nature, your unconditional and ever-present love made it worth far more than to not have had you at all.
I wish I knew why you got so sick, and declined so quickly. Two year-old dogs aren’t supposed to have that happen to them. But something very, very wrong was going on, and God, who made all things good, spared you from suffering, and me from having to make the decision to put you to sleep.
When I took my last picture of you alive, and you were looking better, I expected to pick you up the next morning and take you to Dr. Martin, or perhaps next door.
On the way home I had a flat tire – again God’s providence in making sure I could take the call – the one from Dr. Heft, telling me you had gone into distress, and your heart had stopped when they started giving you a transfusion.
Because I had just finished changing the tire, I could come back, so you wouldn’t have to be without one of us with you. You did not want us to be away from you, and I had to come back.
They worked to help you breathe, and try to get your heart to start. They began about 1230a on Tuesday morning. I got to you at 1250a. Sweet Puppy, I asked questions as they continued until 1220a. Finally, at 120aI asked Dr. Heft, on a scale of 1-10, what was the likelihood of bringing you back. She was kind even in the way she told me you weren’t coming back.
Several times I bent down and held you while they tried so to get you back. I kissed you, prayed for God to revive you.
I came to embrace the fact that you had left us, and I had to rest in Christ that this was, as all things, to his glory.
Rather, than regret the years we – Annie, Mommy, and me, will not have with you, I have asked God to help me be grateful for the richness of your unselfish love – well, unselfish, except if one of us was eating an orange – for the two years we did.
They allowed me to go to an exam room where they brought you to me, laying you the table. You lay on the towel you were on in the treatment area, and had the towel they had over you as a blanket, so that you could stay warm. They even had a towel folded for a pillow for you.
Your eyes were open, and you looked just like you did when you were resting next to Mommy.
After about an hour, I picked you up, and held you close to my heart and wept so. As I write this, I have had to take my glasses off.
I have wept so many times.
When I left you, I had been with you in that room almost three hours.
I got home, and Mommy did not realize you were gone.
We told Annie the next morning. It was the hardest thing as a parent I have ever done, listening, and filling in blanks as Mommy gently told her you had gone.
Annie wanted, as I had hoped, to have you in the back yard. I got a container from Walmart for you, and Mommy washed your fleece bedding you laid on in your crate.
On Thursday night, I dug a place for you. Between tree roots, stopping to drink tea and water, and sobbing uncontrollably, it took me until 330am. It was one of the highest honors of my life to do this for you.
I will have Annie and Mommy help me design it as a memory garden for you.
Annie wanted you to have some things with you, so she got them out, and drew a diagram showing where she wanted me to put them. To the left of your head will be one of your yellow toys you liked to play tug-of-war with. To the right, the green spray paint lid. Your breeder, told us early on that you would like to play with things like that.
Your plastic “peppermint” is going to your bottom left, and one of your last rawhide bones to your bottom right.
I am putting a picture of Annie on an exam table at Dr. Mages’s office, and that wonderful picture of you and Annie taken in my study with the foyer to your backs. Annie looks so happy, and you look so sweet, even though you are not looking into the camera.
Finally, I asked Mommy to bring a fresh orange for you. I will never forget the first time I peeled one after you came home, and you went nuts, as you did over carrots, spinach, celery, almost any fruit or veggie.
I was not able to sleep last night, not because I was stressed, but because I needed some way to express my thoughts of the past week.
In a few minutes, I am coming to bring you home – not as I had hoped, but – under the circumstances – as I want.
I will lay you in the container, and seal it with red "racers" tape. You would bark at the cars when I would watch a race on TV, so it seems fitting. I will seal it that way so that nothing can get to you.
Before I do, I will put the things I described in this letter, along with the letter itself.
I will place you so that your face is toward our house. When we look toward your place in the years to come, we will be looking toward each other.
By the way, my view of Heaven has changed in the last year or so. Some better teaching has helped me to understand that I won’t just be floating around in a spiritual stupor. God will have things there that were blessings for us here.
So, I will – Annie Mommy and I – will see you soon.
I will close with the little song Annie and I made up for you –
“Alicia Marie Ruby Dee,
Won’t you come away with me?
I love you!
Let’s elope!
We’ll have dinner by the sea.
Oh, how happy we will be!
I love you!
Let’s elope!”
I wrote the first part, and Annie did most of the second.
Well, as hugely difficult as this is for me, it too, is my honor.
It is time for me to bring you home, Alicia. See you in a few minutes.
I won’t forget your orange.
Love,
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