When I was a kid, even though I adored dogs, I would refuse to read dog stories because the dog always died in the end.
I even remember a Family Film and Fun Night when I was in elementary school being completely ruined by “Where The Red Fern Grows.” I spent the “Fun” part of the night sobbing in our VW van while everyone else got grab bags and played games in the gym.
And yet, all dog stories end this way, don’t they? The puppy ages. The fluffy frantic little thing slowly transforms into a plodding old pooch with a ridge of spine on her back. Nipping slowly giving way to napping.
So it has gone for feisty puppy Mark and I brought home in an orange pail twelve years ago. We had known Daisy’s kidneys were unwell, but her speedy decline was surprising. And her death at home yesterday morning leaves us bereft. In our minds, she has always been the perfect dog. We have adored her.
I may be sobbing (in my own minivan now) a few more times before I get used to her absence. But it seems a small indignity to pay for the years of delight she gave us. We miss you dearly, precious Daisy. Sweet dog of my heart.