My Tootsie

My poor little Tootsie. I don't know if she'll ever come home again. I think about how much she liked sitting by the fire while we all worked, how good and sweet she was, how excited she got whenever dad came home, the little noise she made when we held up a T-Bone for her. The little crooked tail with a black diamond on it, the beautiful neck she once got shaved for an IV, the oversized eyes and undersized muzzle that made her look like a queen. Its starting to turn grey underneath. Starting. Only Starting. She's only eight years old.

The other night, the night before we took her to the Hospital, we put her to sleep in a little bed in the family room, put water next to her, and covered her up. We thought she might be more comfortable there than in the crowded bed upstairs. But as I was staying up late, I heard a sound and saw Tootsie panting behind me. She had dragged herself, half paralyzed, up two flights of stairs. Just to be with me. I can't imagine how painful that was. I can't imagine why she would do that.

But I wonder, did she know it would be her last night? Did she want to spend it with the ones she loved the most? In the green light falling through my office door, did she catch a glimpse of heaven?