In the end, we demand that they stay with us.
Our selfishness knows no bounds and as we look at him, those brown eyes so clearly filled with more pain than anything else, we're blinded by our own sadness. Not wanting to let go, all we can see is the puppy that chewed up all of the wrong things or the look on his face when we took him to the ocean for the first time. Or the way, when you had a particularly rough day, he would put his head in your lap just so and remind you that everything would be OK (as long as you took a long walk, of course). The emptiness of coming home and not hearing the click of his nails jogging quickly across the floor to greet you eagerly seems unbearable. We beg him for more time. One more week. Another day of awful, hot dog breath and sloppy dog kisses. Just one last walk.
And then, with one loud yelp and legs that give way, the reality hits you and you know you have to say good bye.
My parents got Sequoia when I was a junior at UNCW. Even though I lived away from home, we became fast, fierce friends. Once, when my house on Chestnut St in Wilmington got broken into, my parents loaned him to me and he stayed for a bit. Ever the protector. He was a funny dog who loved to chase cats and take car rides and go to the mountains. He liked his morning and evening massages and demanded a walk at 7pm every night. He loved his family.
My mother called this morning to give me the news. Saying good-bye sucks, no matter how necessary you know it is.
Rest In Peace, Sequoia. You were a good dog. I hope they have car rides in heaven.
