Thursday, April 20, 2017
But she was almost 11 and that is very old for a Boxer. She had pesky old hips and a loose bladder. Her excitement to see me every time I came home was so great that she tinkled every time. Every damn time. She literally could not contain herself.
Her hips started to fail her about a year ago. She would fall over, so I carried her to and from her bed, helping her up when she needed it. I bought her all the magic pills and chews for arthritis. I took her on shorter, slower walks. I laid down and read Mary Oliver to her. I hand fed her turkey and ham and all the things I forbid the boys from feeding her. She loved when I sang to her in the shower. She was a rapt audience.
On days when I was home all day in my writing room, shut up and pecking away furiously, she was at my feet. I talked to her constantly. I asked her questions. She followed me from room to room, coffee refill to lunch break in the yard. I have wept into the crook of that neck more times than I can count.
The thing about dogs is that they don't know how to be selfish. It is us, stupid humans, that do.
And the thing about dogs when they die is that they are not here to help you mourn.
I do not know how to mourn without Penny.
I have no neck crook to weep into.