by claire petrie
On the second year of my loss of Mishka
I still cannot get used to your absence, my gentle, intelligent, silly doggy. I still see you tossing and racing a ball around all by yourself; making a “point” by putting a toy into the hole of the deck table. Most of all, I see you ill and trying to smile at me through your pain. The vet talked me into surgery for you: “You’ll never forgive yourself.” Why did listen? I came to realize that my concern should have been for your comfort only, for a peaceful departure. Forgive me, sweet one. I pray that there is a happy place in heaven for you while you wait for me. That I will once again see your beautiful limitless eyes again. You were a dog sent from heaven. You understood so much—about everything; you were my magic dog. You could read my mind. I remember your morning at home. You actually came upstairs to sleep by my bed, something you had stopped doing for weeks you were so weak. I realize now that you were saying farewell. I will love you forever, my sweet Mishka.