My parents had both chosen to put her down. I was devastated. I knew that they had probably done the right thing, and that she had been in some pretty serious pain beforehand, but I was still overcome with grief. I was angry with myself for not being there to say a final goodbye to my longtime pal, and frustrated that I couldn’t do anything to help her. Upon my request, my dad came to pick me up from my grandma's house a little after midnight. I couldn't stay there, I couldn’t focus on cleaning. I just wanted to go home and disappear for a few weeks. Or months. Or years. My world felt like it had stopped moving. The idea of going home to an empty house, a house without my dog, was surreal. But sure enough, when I walked in the door, there was no Annie to greet me. I think I spent more time crying that night than I did sleeping. There are still reminders of her all over my house. I will occasionally pull something out of my closet and it will be covered in curly, apricot fur, because she shed like crazy, and the hair got everywhere. A little while after she died, we found a few milk bones that she had buried under the couch cushions. Her collar and leash are hanging in the laundry room. Even now, I feel guilty that I wasn’t there when she died. I know that she was a dog, not a human family member or anything. But anyone with half a heart knows that a dog is never just a dog.
Art by: Lauren Rivera
