Fourteen and 1/2 years ago, my brother John brought a little puppy into our family. He named the dog Phoenix at my suggestion. Phoenix was a yellow lab mix and true to his nature, he was extremely loving and affectionate. Yesterday, my mom and John had to make the sad decision that 14 1/2 years was pretty good for an 85 pound dog, and that the many physical complications Phoenix was experiencing due to his age warranted him being put down. I thought I would be OK, I mean after all he was just a dog. But it turns out that I have actually been quite sad. I know my mother and brother thought long and hard about it and that they made the right decision, but that doesn't mean I won't miss the stinky old thing when I go home to visit my family. I mean, we got the dog when I was 14 1/2 and he has been a part of my family for half of my life.
I woke up in the middle of the night last night and as I lay awake, I imagined what it must have been like for my brother. In my mind's eye I watched John take his childhood companion to the vet and I saw him hold Phoenix as he quietly fell asleep. I watched as he carried Phoenix's lifeless body to the back yard. There he began to dig a deep hole as the rain poured all around, nature openly acknowledging the grief. I could see his strong shoulders and back bearing the physical burden of the situation while his tears dripped down his face and mixed with the rain--a tribute to the love between a boy and his dog.
Phoenix, you will be missed.
