She died sometime between Friday night and Saturday morning. We let her out for a while before we went to bed, and we couldn’t find her. She crawled under our porch to die. I don’t know why. It breaks my heart to think of her going that way, outside in the cold.
None of us thought she was going to die. She didn’t seem sick, or particularly old. She still ran like she used to, when we went on walks, and she ate well. She couldn’t have been much older than 9 or 10. I thought she would be there to welcome me home when I went away to college. Now there is no one to welcome me home when I get back from school. The house is quiet and cold and there’s no happy dog waiting inside the door, not bothering to bark, because she recognized the sound of my car. I tear up every time I come home.
Yeah, she was getting older, but she still looked exactly the same. She was as beautiful as ever, the same dog I’d fallen in love with the first time I saw her at the Humane Society. She was the only one not barking her head off. Maybe she didn’t run around as much, but she’d still play and she still loved her walks. I hadn’t taken her on a walk for ages, because the weather has been so bad throughout the winter. Now I never will again.
It was just so unexpected. She was supposed to live forever. Maybe there was something wrong with her heart. My mom said she wondered. She was afraid to find out. She didn’t want to hear the words. She was afraid there was nothing we could have done about it. And now it it’s terrible, to wonder if there was. If we could have saved her. She always seemed so happy. But she shivered sometimes, and she didn’t get around as much. We should have been paying attention. We should have done something. Now it’s too late. And it still seems unbelievable that she was here one night, and then when I woke up, she was gone.
I still don’t really believe she’s gone, not deep down where it matters, but I already miss her. We all do. We buried her in the backyard, under an old tree, and put Valentine’s day flowers on her grave. It seemed appropriate, almost, that she’d die on Valentine’s Day. She was the sweetest, most loving dog I ever met. She was so easy-going. She was half spaniel and half golden lab (or so the vet thought), and I still think she was the loveliest dog I’ve ever seen. She was golden and shaggy and brown-eyed, and she had a little tuft of lighter hair on her head. I loved that when I was a kid; it was like she was a little troll doll. She never seemed to mind.
She was named Honey, because of her nature and her color, but we all just called her our honey-dog. I wish we could have known that we were going to lose her, had some tiny hint of an idea. I could have petted her a little more, coiuld have taken her for a few more walks, or given her that piece of food I teased her with. I could have taken her for granted a little less, because she’d been there for so long, like a comfortable piece of furniture, or a best friend you’ve known forever.
And we’ll get a new dog, eventually, and maybe it will love me, for the few more months I’ll be living at home, and maybe some day, when I’m rich and educated, I’ll live in a house or an apartment that allows pets, and maybe I’ll have a dog of my own, but I’ll never have Honey’s unconditional love again, and I miss it already.
