Molly, our terrier mixed-breed, is grieving too. She isn’t playing or eating (her two favorite things), and she sits by the door waiting for her buddy to come home. I can’t very well explain to her what happened, so she’s been getting a whole lotta extra love and tummy rubs instead.
Molly, waiting for her buddy
We got a nice card from out veterinarian assuring us that we did the right thing for Punkers. There is always that seed of doubt after telling the vet, "Put her to sleep," but this poem is reassuring. No, it isn't high art, but screw high art—this is the kind of poetry that moves me.
If It Should Be
If it should be that I grow weak,
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then you must do what must be done,
For this last battle cannot be won.
You will be sad, I understand;
Don't let your grief then stay your hand.
For this day more than all the rest,
Your love for me must stand the test.
We've had so many happy years—
What is to come can hold no fears.
You'd not want me to suffer so;
The time has come, so let me go.
Take me where my needs they'll tend
And please stay with me until the end.
Hold me firm and speak to me
Until my eyes no longer see.
I know in time that you will see
The kindness that you did for me.
Although my tail its last has waved,
From pain and suffering I've been saved.
Please do not grieve - it must be you
Who had this painful thing to do.
We've been so close, we two, these years—
Don't let your heart hold back its tears.
We love you, babe