No, Taylor didn’t die. I had to send my sweet, sweet friend to a foster home today, which somehow feels worse because I can’t help imagining what she must be thinking.
The reasons this had to be done are not important, and the fact that it cannot be undone is without debate.
She was a rescue when I first got her, a year and a half ago. She had (has) a personality and mannerisms that are all Taylor, and I grew to love her to an extent I would not have thought possible.
She liked to flop on her back and stretch all four legs as far as they would reach, wagging her tail as she received the belly rub she knew was coming.
She had a quirky way of getting off the sofa, planting first only her two forepaws on the floor, stretching her rear legs straight back behind her. She would remain in that pose for the longest time, stretching, tail wagging, until finally she slowly, slowly edged forward until the legs dropped over the edge of the cushion and onto the floor.
I had an unrelated appointment Tuesday evening. I arrived early, sat in the parking lot, and cried like a child. I drove back home through tears, missing the appointment in order to have another evening with her.
I was off work yesterday. I took her to the park, following her lead until she tired and wanted to go home. I gave her too many snacks throughout the day. I laid with her, my head on her belly as she napped in her corner of the couch, listening to, feeling her breathing. The entire day was like a sappy movie.
She used to come running with one of her toys in her mouth whenever I came home from work. It got to be a game, a regular topic of conversation. Which toy did Taylor bring you today? Again, always, with tail-wagging.
There was no sound of charging dog as I unlocked the door today. No toy. No Taylor.
I don’t know why I’m sharing all this. It’s supposed to help to vent.
It doesn’t feel like it did.
mmm
