Bring Me Peace

I couldn't stop thinking about it. Actually, I still can't stop thinking about it.

You see, my dog died seven weeks ago. 52 days ago, to be exact. I've been counting.

That was the worst day of my life.

My dogs are everything to me. They are my world. My life. I would do anything for them. And this little guy . . . well he was something special. He was a Chihuahua mix. With what, I don't know. But his legs were twice as long as any Chihuahua I'd seen and his snout was half as long. He had an underbite and sometimes his tongue would stick through it. I was never a Chihuahua person. Never wanted one. Never really cared for them. Until the day I brought him home.

It was January 27, 2018. He would be dog number two. And I only got him because my other one needed a friend. Somehow, my rowdy 40 pound dog chose to take him as her brother. She loved him immediately. Even cried when I hopped in the car without him, but I had to run to the store.

I, however, was not quite sold on him right away. He was a scrawny, mangy looking thing. And the dumbest dog I'd ever met. He never did learn much. But there was something endearing about it. The way his ears flopped over. And how he would prance instead of run. How, when he and his sister wrestled, he would jump on top of her and then make sounds like he was dying. And then at bed time when he would come curl up right next to my neck.

Before long, he too, was my world. It was just me and my dogs.

But then, something happened. The dumb dog started a fight with his sister. She tried to be gentle. Grabbed him by the scruff and threw him away from her. She actively tried not to hurt him.

There was no blood.

He seemed fine.

But then he started to swell. The vet said his trachea was torn. He said Patches would be okay. That it would heal on it's own in a few days.

But Patches continued to swell.

Bigger, bigger, bigger.

And the next morning, he died in my arms.

The moment I lost him is a moment I'll never forget. It was the day before Easter. I still have his basket.

I can't seem to get over the loss of him. I wonder, if I'd gotten him to the vet sooner that morning would he still be here? If I'd put an end to the fight even a second sooner, would I bubba be alive?

I'll never know.

I have stared up to heaven and begged his forgiveness. Apologized over and over for letting this happen. For not preventing it.

And then one night, as I lay in bed, sobbing uncontrollably. As I thought about everything I could have done to save my Patchy boy, I felt the familiar warmth of his body against the back of my neck. Instantly, my tears stopped. My dog was there with me, I knew it. And he didn't hate me. He didn't blame me for what had happened. In that moment, I knew my dog loved me. He didn't want me to tear myself apart over losing him.

I felt him there until I fell asleep.

I know, it sounds silly. He was a dog. He can't have possibly been there. He can't have possibly communicated with me that night. But I know what I felt. I felt my Patches. My buddy brought me peace when I needed it most.

@danceinsilence