Dear Friends

I cradled you in my arms,

And held you in my heart

The day your eyes met mine,

I loved you from the start.

A part of you is with me,

Embedded deep inside,

No matter where you go,

My love for you won't hide.

I see you running in the yard,

Playing with the others,

White as snow and full of life,

Romping with your "sisters and brothers."

Although you left us here on earth,

One day we'll meet again,

And on that day we'll embrace and play,

Dear Hanna,

            It feels like an eternity has passed without you, but it’s only been just a few weeks. Not a moment goes by, that I don’t think of you, whether it be on “our” morning walk, which I now do alone, or when I’m cooking and you’re not under my feet, or when it’s bed time and you’re not there to snuggle.  I miss seeing your perky expression as you climb the steps to the bed, wagging your tail, and soliciting a body rub.  Every where I turn, you’re not there, and my heart breaks.  I can’t see you, but only in my heart and mind’s eye.  I can’t feel you next to me, and I can’t hear you. But if I focus, I can hear your snorts of contentment and your expressive dinner call.  The house is so quiet, and the activity is low, no one really wants to play like you always did.  Something is missing, and that something…is you.  I guess I never truly realized how much your actions and activities lead the crew, and now without you, they seem displaced too.

I pray that you are safe and happy.  I know that you now have no more needles, no more pills, and any food is yours for the asking.  I see you running with your funky gallop, and happily basking in the sun in the cool grass, just like you did in our backyard.  I see you playing all day long with your cuz toys, or a bottle cap, or a rubber thimble, I never had to worry about you swallowing anything as all you wanted to do was play.  I smile when I remember your three legged dance of excitement for dinner, or your prancing like a horse when a fuss was made or stretching your tiny body across the floor in greeting.  Each morning, I am startled as I leave the bathroom, and you are not sitting there waiting so we could begin our day. 

Your courage and self assurance always astounded me, as you would climb high without fear, investigate all that came in your path, attempt any trick or task and work at it until you were successful, and face pills and medicines and needles, and forget about them all when it was done.  You were always ready to move on to the next adventure.  

I miss seeing you playfully tease Rori or Trevar, with your treat.  How you would stand and watch them, daring them to try, but they never did.  They respected “the squirt.”

Some may think talking to a dog or writing a letter is a “tad off,” but you and I know better. We shared a communication beyond all reason.   I know that you always understood what I was saying.  It breaks my heart to not have you here, and I have to admit, I worry about you without me.  I know how attached we were, and I can only hope and pray that you are well loved and taken care of and having fun.  I hope you know too that I would never hurt you in any way, and if your food was tainted, I didn’t know.  I should have listened to you, but I thought I was doing the best for you because that food helped you before.  Forgive me if I was wrong. It tears my heart to think I may have fed you bad food. 

All I do know is that you were taken before your time.  It all happened too quickly, and suddenly.  I wish I could have brought you back home, at least for your last night.  It breaks my heart to think of you being alone, feeling really bad, and sitting on a cold cage floor at the vet’s.  You always nursed me in my times of need, and I couldn’t be there to tend you, and hold you when you needed me.  I am so sorry.  If I could change it, I would.  I would have brought you home to snuggle, and sleep in your own bed.  Emotions were so high, I thought I was giving you every chance to get the best medicine, and now, I believe the best medicine for us both, would have been for me to bring you home. 

Our last hours together that day were torturous, as you struggled to breathe, yet tried to be happy and loving-my heart shredded as I watched you struggle and held you every so gently.  Our stroll through a local park seemed to bring you some contentment, as you tilted you head to catch the breeze and face the sun, as always.  Each step of our walk, brought me closer to a reality that was too much to bear.  Each minute that passed drew our time together, shorter.  The end was coming too soon, and I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t bear to admit, you had to leave.  Oh how I wish it all could have been different!

It’s summer now, and every time I step outside-I miss you.  How you loved the summer!  Basking in the sun, rolling in the fresh cut grass, sitting next to me in the cool green grass-tender moments and oh so very special! 

My heart fills with tears, and aches when I realize you are not here.  I am lost without you-my playful, happy, spunky friend.  Time goes so slow, and I am reminded of a love lost.

I pray that you are okay and exploring new adventures.  I hope you will be waiting, with all the others, when one day, God calls me too, home.  It is all I have to cling to, I have to believe we will be together again.  I have to.

Run free my precious friend, and know how much I miss you! 

My heart and love always,

The Overwhelming Silence of Dinner

There was a time when dog dinners (and breakfasts) were filled with groans and squeals, three legged noisy dancing across the laminate floor, and excited grumblings standing on hind legs as food was to be served.  Meal time always brought live entertainment to our household.

It was Hanna who provided us with the performance of a life time at each and every meal.  Of course, all would come running at the mere question, “Do you wanna’ eat?”  Each dog has their own responses.  Trevar licks his lips in his ever dignified manner.  Darby, who now has a hearing problem, follows the others galloping happily and sliding on the floor (she was always quiet).  Rori, the youngest of the crew, gives out an occasional bark, but her relationship with food has not always been enthusiastic.  Rori chooses to look at the food first, then yawn, then turn and look for anyone who may be crowding her, and then, she eats.  Hanna’s response to, “Do you wanna’ eat,” typically brought a terrier squared stance with succinct eye contact.  If I dared to move she was galloping in front of me turning to make sure I still meant, “We were going to eat.”  Along the way, she’d turn back and do a 360 degree spin and bounce toward the food bowls.  Hanna could hardly wait until the food clanged into the bowls and was placed before her. She would dance on three legs (more like a bounce/gallop with one foot held up and extended).  If time was too long, she would sit and wag her tail momentarily and then would spin into another 360.  Once all the bowls were filled she knew food was fast approaching and she would begin her excited grumbling hind legged dance.  She always enjoyed (until she got sick) every last morsel of food.  As she patiently waited for all the others to finish, it was her job to clean up.  She headed to each bowl and made sure they were all licked clean, ready for the next meal. 

If you've ever loved a pet and lost them, you know the feelings that come with their loss.  Whether they passed away due a natural course of a disease, or tragically, or you had to decide to euthanize, the pain is all the same.  So then why do we continue to bring more pets back into our lives?

After my first Westie Shanna, passed away, I was devastated and heartbroken. I still don’t think I ever fully recovered, but I did continue to live and love.    I knew at that moment that I could never go through that experience ever again.  But isn’t funny how “things” happen when we step out of ourselves, and look at the needs of others.  Brin, Shanna’s ever faithful Scottie friend, was mourning her loss deeply, even months after she passed away.  Because I knew Brin was never without Shanna, I felt the need to get her company-thus, Hanna AND Darby arrived.  Because of Brin, I brought two more companions home to keep her company.  It was a selfless act, because I thought it would help her.  And then, she passed away a month later leaving me with two dogs, and more heartbreak at her loss.

If I wouldn’t have gotten Hanna and Darby for Brin, I would have been dog less. I would not have had 12 plus years of training, scooping poop, grooming, playing, snuggling, performing, visiting, walking, riding, and having constant adoring company at my beck and call.  I would have missed all of that, even knowing that there would come a time when life would end, and I would feel really bad all over again.  It is torture now, but what wonderful years we had together-my life was filled!     

While I am truly doubtful that I will add any more furry critters to the crew, I am glad that twelve and one half years ago, my life was blessed with a little Hanna and an adult Darby.  I think Brin knew what she was doing.  It doesn’t ease the pain of Hanna’s loss, but it does make me think, what life might have been if I hadn’t brought her home. I guess it really "is better to have loved and lost" than to never have known love at all.

Rainbow Friends

For all that have gone before me,

I hope to find you one day,

Know that your heart and mine,

Are bonded in a special way.

Each time I look to the sky,

Thoughts of you come in,

I wonder what you’re doing,

I wish I could hold you then.

But this is not to be,

We separated for a while,

All that I can do,

Is hold memories that make me smile.

Of one thing I am certain,

In a vision some times seen,

The rainbow ends hold you,

Keep you safe as you wait for me.

© 2007 Dana Smith-Mansell

Losing Hanna

My world was once again turned upside down, as I made the drive to the vet’s office where Hanna was recovering, or so we thought.  Ten miles away from seeing Hanna for our  morning hospital visit, the cell phone rang.  “She’s getting worse,” the doctor said, “where are you?”

My heart plunged to my feet and emotions choked me, “We’re about ten miles away, ”  I said softly.  That was all I remember.  The tears began to flow, and what hope we had blew out the window like a feather. 

The ten mile drive seemed like a hundred, and was filled with heart wrenching emotion.

Tears, then sobs, then calm, and tears again.  The world seemed to be passing by so fast, as my heart pounded within my chest.  “The final journey,” were words that kept going through my mind. 

I began the “bargaining” process soon after the call.  “Please God; just give us a little more time.  I’ll do anything, please just let her have the summer.”  Denial came rushing in quickly, “No the doctor is wrong, he doesn’t know her like I do.  She’s probably just depressed from being in the hospital.  Besides, she was this bad once before and she showed them all!”

Guilt followed in tow, “I should have taken her to the 24 hour clinic.  I should have insisted on new labs.  I should have listened to my own instincts. It’s all my fault.”

Those ten miles took me through such a range of emotions and grief, and I was left to only imagine what I would feel when I saw and held her.  We finally arrived at the vet’s office, and as I put the car in park, tears gushed.  My heart was breaking.

And then, I thought about Hanna.  I could not let her see me this upset; she would know that it was not good.  I composed myself as much as possible, and we entered the hospital.  I immediately broke down again.  Fighting to gain composure, I asked to see the doctor before we saw Hanna.

We sat in the cold conference room, and waited.  Within minutes the doctor appeared.  He explained her lab values had barely made any improvement, but the bigger issue now was that her lungs were filling with fluid.  The very fluid that could help was in fact killing her.  “Why,” I screamed silently, “why?”  He said I would see it in her eyes, “it was time.”

God how I hated those words, “it is time.”  Time in this instance meant “time to die.”  Soon Hanna was carried to my arms by a tech.  She greeted us but not as exuberantly as normal.  Her eyes were dark, and her breaths were heavy.  A lump swelled in my throat.  “Couldn’t we try?”  I thought silently, but watching her and holding only showed me how upset she was that this was happening.  She couldn’t understand why she was feeling this way, and wanted me to make it better, like always.  Except this time, I couldn’t, I didn’t know how.  Holding her, talking to her, petting her, giving her a pill or fluids, and making her feel secure was not going to help her.  Oh how my heart broke!

We left the hospital and drove to a nearby park.  We placed her in the stroller and walked, and sang.  She seemed as content as her discomfort would allow.  We sat beneath a big old tree by a pond, and offered her small amounts of water which she so desperately craved.  We walked and talked, sang and sat, and held on.  There wasn’t enough time left, and all I wanted to do was bring her home.  I’m sure that’s all she wanted.  But she struggled so hard to breathe when we got back into the car.  I was unsure if she knew what was to come or if she was going to die in my arms (which would have been a mixed blessing). 

The sun was shining and it was a beautiful breezy Hanna-type of day.  We waited in the grass behind the hospital for the doctor. As I held her on my lap for the final time, the injection was administered.  Her lifeliess body laid on my lap, and I cried like a baby.  My precious friend, my strong courageous happy upbeat “light of my life” friend was gone.  Oh how I miss her!

Dinner time without her is a tad dull.  It is ominously quiet, and I still wait to hear her excitement…but it never comes.  The three dogs now eat in silence and all that can be heard are toe nails on the laminate floor and crunching.  It is quiet at meal time.  Hanna’s meal time happiness is silent, and our loss is great.  Emotions can overwhelm at these times, so we’re left to cling only to the videos and memories of an everlasting spark of life, our Hanna.