They put my dog to sleep tonight. Her name was Samantha (and Sam and Sammy and Sam-Dog) and she was an old dog who lived a good life. I cried when I found out.
I thought about her soft eyes, and how we’d sit together when it would thunder, both of us trembling.
I remembered her as a puppy, teaching her commands, and I remember her as an old dog, struggling to stand. I know it’s for the best, and she’s out of pain.
I do not cry because I’m sad. I cry because I’m happy she doesn’t hurt, and she had a good life (I’d like to think).
And I regret those times I yelled at her, and that I smacked her with the paper when she wouldn’t be put to bed.
And I think about how we’d go on walks around the yard, and I’d sit there and she’d walk around me. And how she never minded being apart of the story I was thinking of at that moment. How in her time she was a wolf, a loyal hound, the last of her kind, and a familiar.
How for a few years I called her the African word for “three” because of the spots on her chest, of which there were three..although I can no longer remember the word.
I’m sorry that I have no pictures of her on my computer. Most of the ones I took of her were when she was younger and it wasn’t with a digital camera.
And she had an extra toe.
I’m out of tears now, though not really, I just think this is enough, for now, for tonight.