If there is one thing I have learned in life is that you always live to your fullest. I learned that from my dog.
Yes, I realize how absurd that sounds. You wouldn’t think that a dog would have such a big impact on a young persons life.
But he did. My little rat-terrier dog Abraham taught me quite a bit. How to chase squirrels, never to climb up trees (for fear of being stuck up there like he had done before), and many more things. Most of all, though, he helped me learn that no matter what you have to keep going.
And the day that he died, that lesson seemed to die with him. He hadn’t pushed through his blindness and deafness. And that discouraged me.
I clearly remember the day we had to put him down. It was sunny, we had just let him outside and he had done his business and came back in. We had his little dog carrier put and it was sitting by the new deep cherry colored dining room table. The kennel looked to small and insignificant next to the table, I don’t know why that stuck in my memory, but it did.
Abraham, even with his cateract-filled eyes, could see the kennel as clear as day. His unclipped nails scrabbled against the tile floor and he slid, sending him tumbling to his doom of not being able to get up.
Everybody was virtually sobbing by now and I think Abraham could pick up on that. He tried so hard to escape that kennel carrier but just couldn’t seem to get enough purchase on the floor.
Then, the minute my sister tossed a treat onto the kennel, he crawled in, banging his head on the top and tripping up on the small step. The whole time this was happening, a scene from Marley and Me kept flashing through my head. The part when Marley is slowly closing his eyes as the medicine is being pumped into his body. The “sleeping” medicine, as my parents always sugar coated it as.
And instead of Marley being the dog on the table, it was my poor poor baby. The sweet pup I had known since I was born. His black spots defined and bold, his eyes a solid brown. Now all that was left of that dog I once knew was greying fur and milky eyes.
As my dad left, and only my dad, I secretly waved goodbye and whispered under my breath the words “I will ALWAYS love you, Abraham.” I still mean those words.
Now, as I am remembering all of this, the lesson has come back. It has been an inkling in the back of my mind, nothing more than a dust bunny forgotten.
There have been times when it’s come back and spoke its words of wisdom to me. Every time I look at the patch of sinking dirt that is now Abrahams’ grave, or remember all the good times we had together.
And now, in the times of need and want, troubles and sorrows, I tell myself, ‘Push through, because eventually it will get you through to the sunny times after the storms.’
-Claire (inspired by a lost friend)
Yes, I realize how absurd that sounds. You wouldn’t think that a dog would have such a big impact on a young persons life.
But he did. My little rat-terrier dog Abraham taught me quite a bit. How to chase squirrels, never to climb up trees (for fear of being stuck up there like he had done before), and many more things. Most of all, though, he helped me learn that no matter what you have to keep going.
And the day that he died, that lesson seemed to die with him. He hadn’t pushed through his blindness and deafness. And that discouraged me.
I clearly remember the day we had to put him down. It was sunny, we had just let him outside and he had done his business and came back in. We had his little dog carrier put and it was sitting by the new deep cherry colored dining room table. The kennel looked to small and insignificant next to the table, I don’t know why that stuck in my memory, but it did.
Abraham, even with his cateract-filled eyes, could see the kennel as clear as day. His unclipped nails scrabbled against the tile floor and he slid, sending him tumbling to his doom of not being able to get up.
Everybody was virtually sobbing by now and I think Abraham could pick up on that. He tried so hard to escape that kennel carrier but just couldn’t seem to get enough purchase on the floor.
Then, the minute my sister tossed a treat onto the kennel, he crawled in, banging his head on the top and tripping up on the small step. The whole time this was happening, a scene from Marley and Me kept flashing through my head. The part when Marley is slowly closing his eyes as the medicine is being pumped into his body. The “sleeping” medicine, as my parents always sugar coated it as.
And instead of Marley being the dog on the table, it was my poor poor baby. The sweet pup I had known since I was born. His black spots defined and bold, his eyes a solid brown. Now all that was left of that dog I once knew was greying fur and milky eyes.
As my dad left, and only my dad, I secretly waved goodbye and whispered under my breath the words “I will ALWAYS love you, Abraham.” I still mean those words.
Now, as I am remembering all of this, the lesson has come back. It has been an inkling in the back of my mind, nothing more than a dust bunny forgotten.
There have been times when it’s come back and spoke its words of wisdom to me. Every time I look at the patch of sinking dirt that is now Abrahams’ grave, or remember all the good times we had together.
And now, in the times of need and want, troubles and sorrows, I tell myself, ‘Push through, because eventually it will get you through to the sunny times after the storms.’
-Claire (inspired by a lost friend)
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