Our family dog, Mo, passed away this week after 14 long years. This was not a surprise to any of us, as she was finding it difficult to walk, climb steps and even lie down. Even though we knew the end was coming, it still felt sudden and we are all still slightly in shock. Simple things like the fact that her water bowl and food bowl are not longer tucked away in the corner of the kitchen makes my heart skip a beat. I came downstairs this morning expecting to be greeted by Mo, eager to be let out to the backyard to relieve her bladder, instead finding her chair - the once gorgeous leather chair and ottoman that was my husband's for all of a minute before she commandeered it for herself - empty. The vacancy alone of that now beat up couch made my heart break.
The hardest thing, I think, was watching my kids say their goodbyes. To those of you who are not dog-people, you're probably rolling your eyes and muttering, "it's just a dog, for God's sake!" In order to have some understanding, I urge you to read Marley and Me, or, The Art of Racing in the Rain. If after those two books, you're still not moved, then I give up. To you, I may never be able to fully explain the magic that happens to a family when a dog enters it. They are usually homeless and when you bring that dog into your house and offer them love, they give that love back to you in spades. They love unconditionally, they greet you at the front door every day like they haven't seen you in weeks (unlike your children who barely give you a "hey") and at some point they even believe that you are their Mom or Dad. They intuitively know when you're having a crappy day and they'll lay their head down onto your lap and they clearly let you know that they are there for you in any way you need. No words needed, just their comfort and understanding and warmth. Those of you who understand - whether you are pet owners or not - are nodding your heads in total agreement. You get it. So my kids had this beautiful idea of bringing gold paint and paper to the vet and making a paw print. I was too distraught to even think about that, but they gathered what they needed and while they sat with her saying goodbye, they made a print. And I was sitting there
heartbroken watching my kids cry out of love for Mo who had brought them so much joy.
And I realized that the best gift of closure I could give them is to create an album of photos that would tell the story of Mo's life as she lived it entwined with ours. I requested on our family WhatsApp group to send me all pictures of Mo and I started collating them into an album. I have hundreds of photos now, a daunting job ahead of me of sifting through them and hand picking the most memorable photos of her as she lived her best self.
And I'm hoping that I will be able to do the best job I can of showing how much we loved her through her photos.
As I started going through them, I found myself continually amused by her larger than life personality - the photos of her covering her nose with her paws while she slept, her goofy smile as she posed for the camera, the funny way she sat on the steps with her rump on one step and her front legs on another, her less-than-amused expression while reluctantly wearing a birthday hat, and the one where she climbed onto the dining table to sleep in the middle of the night hoping no one would discover her.
I ultimately decided that printing one photobook wasn't going to be enough. My kids aren't kids anymore, but rather entering adulthood and would be moving out in the not so distant future. One photobook isn't going to cut it. So we're printing one larger photobook for the house and a smaller softcover photobook for each child.
It's something in know they will take with them wherever they find that soft place to land, and while I know that they will carry Mo with them in their hearts wherever they go, it's certainly nice to have that tangible keeper of her legacy to enrich those priceless memories.
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