When You Let the Gift Go

and hope for goodness beyond loss

Two Days Ago

I am on the couch with him next to me, where he never got to go unless he jumped up when we left the house. When our kids caught him in the act, seeing him happily snuggled into the linen cushions, they’d delight in sending me photos: Fulton, our sweet dog, nestled in the comfort of pillows where he could see out the front windows and notice when my car pulled in so he had time to jump off. We’d see the signs of his sneaky behavior later—the tufts of golden fur on the couch, combined with the dark circles of drool.

But he is on the couch today because the doctor said it is time to pamper him—feed him vanilla ice cream, bring him his favorite stuffed animals, enjoy the hours that have come so very short. He is sick again, and when the doctor told me how his body is failing, I burst into tears even though I knew, I knew, I knew.  

He had cancer at age six and then again at age 10, and I remember how those visits to the doctor were suspense-filled and dramatic: Fulton was always so scared and hated the chemo, but in those days, there was always hope, there was always another treatment to try, another thing to do. And he got better. But not this time. 

To let my sweet friend and companion go now is so very, very sad.

For the last month, when his back legs got wobbly, and he started to lose weight–and when he got too weak to climb the stairs–I carried him up and down, his lanky body leveraged awkwardly against my left hip, his breath heavy and hot in my ear. Every night at bedtime, he nuzzled his nose into my arm before curling up on the floor. Then, in the morning, he’d lie splayed out near Justin on the other side of the bed. We have become experts at maneuvering over his warm, furry body in the darkest rooms. We walk carefully, always just assuming he is there. 

When we tell our daughter the news over the phone, she begins, through her sobs, texting us photos of Fulton, one after another. Here he is, wet and pitiful, just out of the bath, his fur sticking fast to his pink skin. Here he is, prancing through the kitchen dressed in her monkey pajamas. Here he is, encircled by her and her brothers the day we got him: three sets of hands on his back, three sets of eyes sparkling with love and the magic of him. All of them captivated, all so small and so young.

I am writing this now because I don’t know what else to do. I write because it centers me at this moment; I don’t want to forget these last days: his sitting near me, the feel of his fur, the sound of his breath, the kindness of his eyes. Here I am with a gift, so I look backward and forward to remember the best I can.

What more can I say and do? What more can I feel? I let myself absorb the ache in my chest, the exhaustion from feeling so sad. I let myself feel the atmosphere—the sounds of the pounding nail gun penetrating the composite for the new roof next door, the cars on the road outside the house heading to pick up the kids at the elementary school up the street. I see the pumpkins we picked out with Fulton at our annual Half Moon Bay beach/pumpkin patch trip two weeks ago: an orange-pink one and another mint blue. 

He has moved off the couch and is beneath my legs now. He is the sweetest, and I will miss him so much.

It was the last summer. The last Christmas tree hunt. The last walk. The last bath. To love and to lose propels me to Jesus. How else can I have hope when death feels so not okay?

Today

We said goodbye. My sweet boy and companion who loved me unconditionally. Such a beautiful gift–a gift that has changed my life. I am so, so grateful for your goodness, God.

---

Fulton

I can’t write about you yet
the way you loved me
the way you pressed your wet nose
to mine.

How you loved me when I
didn’t deserve it, like you didn’t
care that I didn’t. You saw
the world simply:
you are safe, or you are not,
you are home, or you are not.

And I was home with you, 
wherever I was,
because home was 
us together: simple and true
and I want things to be
uncomplicated again
like that.