7 years ago, when my little sister heard that I was pregnant with Niamh, she voiced concern that I might not love the baby as much as I loved my dog, Eddy. She had good reason to be worried. That dog and I had a pretty special bond.
Eddy was the world’s worst guard dog, and the best everything else you want in a dog, friend, and companion. My heart is still broken because he is gone, and I kind of hope it doesn’t ever heal.
It all happened pretty darn fast. Though we now realize there were signs of a brain tumor over the last few months, we don’t think he suffered until his last day, which just happened to be my 35th birthday. Steve and I couldn’t stand to see him in pain and scared. We did what we thought was the brave and selfless thing to do. There will probably always be a little piece of me that wishes I had endless resources to be able to go full throttle with diagnostic tests, surgery, chemo, steroids, and more anti-seizure meds. But, really, that wouldn’t have been fair to a pooch that would never know what the hell was happening to him.
I don’t know if I wish I were 4 years old, like Finn, and not know that this is so painful. Or, if I prefer to cry about him when I remember what a perfect pet he was for me and our family because he deserves all the tears that show how much I appreciate his sweet and goofy personality.
We all miss you, Sweet Pup. We’d give anything to see you run past us, through the dog door, with a stolen dirty diaper in your mouth again.