Contributed by: Amit Goyal (amitgoyal_pau @ yahoo.com)
They are but two simple words that are easily spoken. I have heard them over and over again in my mind for the past eight months. I struggle each day to find the courage to speak these words out loud. Each time that I have tried, a lump appears in my throat, my eyes get misty, and all that I can do is barely whisper the words "She's gone."
Eight months ago, I lost the best friend I ever had to cancer. Her passing left a void in my life that I have yet to fill. It all started some 14 years ago. Something was lacking in my life.. I was married and had two children, but it wasn't enough. It was an ad in the paper that caught my eye and brought us together. I answered it the same day I read it. She was very young when we met. She was friendly and kind, and we took to each other right off. I wanted her more than anything else in the world. There was just one problem though: What about the wife and kids? I had them to think about. I could not keep something like her a secret, could I?
I started to walk away from her and forget the whole notion. I was just about to open the door when she grabbed me by my pant leg and started pulling and biting. I then stopped and picked her up. Looking into those big brown eyes I knew this Springer spaniel was going home with me.
It was a new experience for us all-the wife, children and Norma, the new puppy. Through the years, we learned from each other. At times, I lost track on who was really training who. As a dog, she taught me about compassion and patience. As a friend, she taught me about love. The kind of love that is unconditional. The kind that makes you sacrifice more than you thought you could for anyone person or animal. It was her human characteristics that really made her shine. Without a doubt, this dog had more compassion than some of my closest human friends. The week after, my dad's death, I walked out to her kennel and let her out to play some fetch. I was feeling pretty low and thought this might cheer me up. When I threw the training dummy, she brought it back just like she had been trained. Dropping it at my feet, she waited. I bent down to pick it up. Then she did something very unusual for her. She jumped up at me. I stopped and scolded her. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, I dropped to one knee and began to say I was sorry. Norma then jumped up again.
This time, she put her paws on my shoulders and rested her head there, as well. I brushed her off and said, "You goofy dog." She repeated the motion. This time, I did not brush her off. This time, I embraced the hug she offered and said thank you. We shared many moments like that during our time together. Norma could always sense when I needed a friend.
I think I marveled most at the way she saw the world. We have two cats in our house; one is a calico named Shak, and the other is Socks. Although she was friends with both, Norma developed a special bond with Shak. In the winter time, I always Brought Norma in from her kennel and she'd sleep in the laundry room. One morning, I awoke to find her sleeping there, curled up in a ball with her paws gently wrapped around Shak, who was sound asleep. What lessons the world could learn from our four legged friends if only we paid more attention.
Two years ago, she was diagnosed with cancer, and the vet did surgery. The vet excised what she could, but she couldn't get it all. The vet told me Norma might live a year if she is lucky.
Almost a year later, she developed a cough. The cancer had spread to her lungs. On Jan. 25, one day after her 14th birthday, I took Norma to the vet for the last time. We spent the better part of the day together. Just before we left, Norma came over to the chair in the living room.
Putting her paws up on my lap, she tried to getup. She was too ill, and I had to help her. In typical Norma fashion, she put her paws around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder. Then, she let out with a deep sigh. I wish I could tell you that I hugged her, and held her, and told her it was going to be all right, but I can't. Truth is, I cried like a baby for the better part of an hour. I was searching for the courage to finish what needed to be done. I hated myself in the worst way for what I was about to do. Why must I be judge and jury? I loved her the most, I cared for her the most, why me? Then it hit me, the answer, and when it did, I felt ashamed. Instead of asking myself "why me?" I should have been asking "why not me?" The courage I was lacking then suddenly swelled up inside of me. I kissed her and hugged her, and told her it was time. I took her to the vet that afternoon not as a pet owner, or a guy who had a hunting dog. I took her down there as my friend. After the shot was given, I held her in my lap. It was then I gave her one last command. I told her to hunt. With that spoken, she was finally set free. Then, she slowly closed her eyes and went to sleep forever.
Death has a way of affecting my mind for a while, and I seem forever falling short of finding a way to take it all in and make sense of it. That evening, I walked outside on my back porch and watched the day give way to the night. As the evening star appeared, I did something I hadn't done since I was a kid. I made a wish. The only difference between then and now was that I was wishing for something I really didn't want, because it wasn't really right to wish for things like that. But I did any way, and I think you know what I wished for.
Walking back inside the house, Shak the calico cat wandered from room to room. It seemed that she was looking for something or maybe someone. Being a pet owner, one thing I have learned through the years is that love knows no boundaries - two-legged, four-legged, or those that fly.
When love comes from the heart, it is felt.
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