Obituary for Abigail: March 1994 - January 2009

On Thursday, January 8, Abby and I took a long walk. She sniffed and smelled. She pee'd and poo'd. I sat on the ground and just let her be the ol' gal that she wanted to be before we had to go. And while I sat there, I prayed that somehow she would know how much she had meant to me, to my kids, and to our family. Never before had I wanted to communicate my true feelings so badly with anyone. She had become so intertwined into our family's history that it is hard to imagine us before she came along.

Abigail (better known as Abby) was born the daughter of a Labrador Retriever and German Shepard. She was almost three years old when we adopted her. Abby would fetch a ball, but you had to wrestle it out of her jaw. She would shake your hand with either paw for a mere verbal reward of "good girl." She would also roll over and "sit" upon command. Most of the time, when she did sit, she would sit "on" you, not "next" to you.

The day we brought Abby home, both kids and Abby sat in the back seat of the convertible with Abby perched in the middle. I can still see all three of them in the back seat. Their hair is blowing. Abby is panting. It looks like she is almost smiling. Both kids are holding on to her and talking to her. A friendship is being formed in the back seat of that convertible. I watched it all from the rearview mirror, and my heart took a picture.

I look back now and realize how much she enjoyed that car ride. I wish I would have taken her on more car rides; but, instead, she soon learned that the car ride eventually involved the vet's office, and she did not like going there at all. By the time that I started tossing her in the back of the truck for a long-distance trip home, she would stay petrified for two or three hours--just waiting for the vet's office to appear on the horizon, I suppose.

For most of her life, Abby lived in a wonderful, fenced-in back yard, and she loved to patrol the perimeter. She had friends on the other side of the fence, and they would often chase each other up and down the fence line. Abby also loved to chase birds and rabbits. In her younger days, she caught quite a few of them and would leave them at the back door for me to find after she had finished playing with them.

Abby never tried to escape from the back yard. She loved it there because we were there--in the pool, playing basketball, or working in the shed. Whatever we were doing, she was there. Other dogs seemed to be jealous of her life and would actually try to break into the back yard, so we finally had to lock the fence to keep the riff-raff out.

Abby loved to stay outside during the day time. She would soak up the sun (when she wasn't chasing the birds). She would also patrol the fence. And she looked ferocious, but she was as gentle as a lamb. The only time Abby did not want to be outside was during rain or a thunderstorm. We often joked that "rain affected her beauty." She did not like getting wet. And thunder frightened her tremendously. Sometimes I would get a call from Carol, next door, and she'd say, "There's a storm coming up, so I put Abby inside." And that was fine with me. At night, when we were all home and spending time as a family, she would stand at the back door and scratch to come in. She knew she was part of the family and she wanted to be a part of whatever we were doing.

In June 2006 I made the decision to move to Virginia to attend law school and I was advised to give away the pets so that I would not be distracted. Within a week of renting an apartment where no pets were allowed, I regretted that decision. I immediately took a day off work, drove back to Virginia, found another place to live that did allow pets (at a much higher rate), signed the lease, and then begged the first landlord to let me out of that lease. Fortunately it all worked out, and in July it was me and Abby on our way to law school in Virginia.

In Virginia, Abby no longer had her own yard to play in during the day. Instead, her days were spent inside an apartment. When she did go outside, she had to be on a leash. She lost a lot of freedom, but never complained. She was part of the family and family members make sacrifices for one another.

In the past few years she had developed cataracts on both eyes and she had lost most of her hearing. She would bump into doors and walls or get lost in dark rooms. She had arthritis in her hips and had lost most of her muscle tone. She had trouble with staircases and seemed embarrassed when we tried to help her. She would stand for extended periods of time because it was just too painful to sit. She also had tumors that were robbing her body of the nutrition it needed. She would eat three times a day like a starved animal, but she was still losing weight while the tumors were getting larger. The surgery was expensive--not to mention that it was risky for such an elderly dog. Her health and quality of life deteriorated very quickly.

While I sat on the ground Thursday, I thought about all those years we had together. And I cried. I cried because I knew how the day would end. I cried because I was losing my friend. I cried because I had to make this awful decision. And I cried because my heart was breaking.

Mom had bought her a bone that she thoroughly enjoyed, and then we loaded up in the truck for one more ride. As usual, she was petrified--and for good reason. When we got to the vet's office she was so good about walking in and sitting down. I, on the other hand, was a basket case. (You would have thought they were putting me to sleep!)

We went to the examination room and waited for the vet. He explained the procedure and said we could stay or go. I decided to stay. She was being such a brave girl, I felt it was the least I could do for her. She was laying across my feet--like she had done on so many occasions--and the doctor just sat down on the floor next to her. He placed a needle in her front leg and injected the fluid. I was rubbing her head and talking to her, and she did not fight it. She did not whimper; she did not recoil. She barely breathed two breaths after the injection and then she just drifted off to sleep. I took that as a sign that she was tired and ready to go. The vet let me stay with her for a few minutes afterward. I got down on the floor with her and just petted her and told her what a great friend she had been for over twelve years. I kissed her forehead and shook her hand one more time and said, "You are a good girl."

The fool has said in his heart, there is no God (Psalm 53:1). Abby was one of a kind. There will never be another like her, regardless of how long this Earth remains. To think that not only is every human being unique, but every animal as well--every dog, cat, rabbit, sparrow, cricket. Every creature, every plant, and every day is one of a kind. To wrap my head around that just makes me marvel at the God of this universe who can do such an amazing thing on a daily basis. And to know that I was the one chosen to know, love, and be blessed by Abby for twelve years made me feel like a steward entrusted with the care of the master's prized possession.

I knew this day would come, but that knowledge didn't make it any easier. Tonight I will listen for her toe nails going clickety-clack down the hallway to my room, and I still expect her to wake me up in the morning by nuzzling close to my pillow and giving a loud snort. But, instead, I'll be reminded that we brought her home and buried her in mom's back yard. While a friend was digging the hole, I sat on the ground with her again--almost in the same place we had been a few hours earlier--just stroking her head and loving her one more time. She had been my companion for twelve years. She was my side kick. She was so obedient, humble, and easy to train. She had never been a burden. Even in death she didn't inconvenience anyone, but left graciously, like a lady.