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She was just a dog, really, when it comes down to it. I understand that more than anyone. When you lose a child, everything becomes crystal clear in terms of pain. Except sometimes I am amazed to find that I can still hurt. It started out as a happy day. A rare Alabama snow had woken us all to a bit of wintry mix blowing in the air. My youngest, Liam, went outside with my hubby and our dogs to play. I watched them from the comfort of my big pink robe and the house. Liam reported later that Zoë, our 13-year-old sheltie, was friskier than she had been in a long time. “She is an Ohio dog,” we explained, “and she probably loved the snow.” Predictably the snow melted and also predictably I had to go to Walmart. We had been “snowbound” for five or six hours and we were all hungry for food that wasn’t found in our home. Liam came with me and we made a list. He needed a new binder and I wanted some candy. Just a regular day. Until upon leaving the garage at a crawl I felt my tires hit some resistance. I immediately put the car into “park” and asked Liam to see what I had hit. His face frozen in horror, he said, “No! I don’t want to!” So I got out and what I saw made my blood freeze in my veins. My sweet, sweet Zoë was under my wheels. I screamed. I screamed SO LOUD and I could not stop. “I HIT ZOE! I HIT ZOE!” I wailed at the top of my lungs. The sound coming out of me was not human. My hubby came bolting to the door and moved the car off of Zoë. “You just ran over her front legs.” He told me, “She is still alive.” We loaded our poor girl into the car and took her to the emergency vet where hundreds of dollars and many hours later we took her home with hope. Her feet were bandaged and she seemed disoriented. I was confused, stunned, and mostly, just really, really guilty. When days passed and Zoë just languished without drinking or eating and pulling herself around at a crawl, I think I knew we would have to put her down. I hoped against hope that she would rally. We took her to our own vet who offered some hope. It was hard to reconcile his hopeful words with the crawling sad creature simulating our Zoë. Our decision was not easy. But it was not hard, either. None of us wanted to remember Zoë crawling like a snake on her belly. So again my poor sweet hubby rose to the occasion to be with her at the end. Just before she was given the injection, he called me begging to bring her home. I was torn. I wanted her home too. I wanted her home like I wanted Carrick alive… like I wanted time to turn backwards to a time when I didn’t realize life could be so hard. “I cannot go through this any longer.” I finally told him. Hours later he, Liam and I were in the woods we own behind our house working on a grave for Zoë. We buried her next to Betsy; Carrick’s sweet but simple-minded miniature schnauzer who had been killed by a truck just months after Carrick left us. We hauled rocks to put on her gravesite and stayed busy to keep the pain at bay. Finally we were finished, just as daylight ended and shadows criss-crossed our yard. Tears ran down our faces and I steeled myself to remember. She was just a dog, really, when it came down to it. But she was mine.
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