The recent death of my childhood dog was difficult, but the thoughts of the time we had together overshadow the pain
I was 7 years old when my family and I drove out to a small farm in the country to buy a dog. It was fall, the landscape a mixture of gray, red and brown, the sky overcast.The hills arched and fell like a roller coaster and I was nauseated with anticipation.
When we arrived, the litter of pure-bred golden retrievers mingled with their siblings and parents for the last time as strangers began to cart them off, one by one.
Dave Ruigh Jayplay writer
When I saw her, tiny and the color of light copper, I knew I had to have her. She reminded me of a penny, and before we were home, that was what I named her.
As we drove home, she lay in my lap, cradled in a blanket. Because I was an only child, Penny would become the closest thing I had to a sister for the next 13 years, as we grew up together.
She started small but grew quickly. Before I knew it, she weighed as much
as I did. Penny loved to shake people's hands and play in the snow. She hated firecrackers and thunderstorms, and she never failed to greet me at the top of the stairs when I would come home. As Penny grew older, her face whitened and she couldn't run as fast, but she aged gracefully and sat like an elderly monarch, hunched yet regal.
When I decided to go to school 200 miles from home, I didn't realize how
much I would miss her. I looked forward to seeing her more than just about anyone else whenever I went back home. Every time I came back she met me at the top of the stairs, just like always, whining with her thick tail wagging frantically.
When I moved back home this past summer, I knew Penny wasn't going to live very much longer. Her
hind legs would give out, slipping on the linoleum or tripping on the stairs, and my dad would have to pick up her aging body and set her back on course. He would mention, quietly and reluctantly, that we couldn't let her live like this.
One day Penny fell in the yard, the same yard where we played in the snow every winter for more than a decade, and couldn't get back up. She had never fallen in the yard before, and I knew
what would happen if she couldn't raise herself.
I panicked. I sat down next to Penny and begged her to get up. If she could get up on her own, I reasoned, she wouldn't need to be put down. She tried, but couldn't. Her hind legs were sprawled awkwardly underneath her body and her front legs, pawing for balance, could not find steady ground. Eventually, she stopped struggling. I begged her again, but she just smiled at me in the way only golden retrievers can, with a sagging tongue and upturned gums. I cried. I never cry.
My dad called the veterinarian that evening to make an appointment to have Penny put down the following day. When I left for work that next morning, I shook her hand one last time and kissed her on the forehand. She looked happy. I couldn't turn back and look at her as I walked down the hallway. My mom said goodbye to me, but I couldn't respond. I had no air in my lungs.
At work that day, I couldn't look anybody in the eye and I felt sluggish and dazed. My legs barely existed and could hardly support me. When a co-worker said something offhandedly about what her pet had done the night before, I felt like throwing up. I didn't tell anybody what happened.
When I got home that afternoon, there were flowers from the veterinarian's office on the table and my dad was
sitting in a chair. We didn't speak for a few minutes. Finally, he told me how strong Penny had been before the veterinarian gave her the shot in the back of our pickup. My dad had held her in a blanket through it all; she left us as she came to us, cradled in a blanket. It was over so fast that my mom was still petting her when my dad told her Penny was gone.
As my dad sat in his chair, he asked me, his voice cracking, if I would write something for Penny. He told me I was the writer in the family. But I couldn't do it then.
Penny had been my friend and part of our family since I was 7 years old. I've never experienced a death in the family, so hers was one of the hardest things I've had to go through.
My parents swear they will never get another dog. Most people say this after a pet dies, but I believe them when they say it. Penny does seem irreplaceable. When I get a place of my own, though, I know I'll get another dog. Pets add something to life that nothing else can, a constant source of friendship and comfort.
But no matter how many dogs I have in my life, I'll never forget Penny. She was my first dog, my friend and my family.
09. 29.05 Jayplay
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