I was 13 years old when I received the news that my faithful black and white little Tippy dog had been hit and killed on the highway in front of my house. I could hardly breath and I collapsed into strong arms and wept. Seeing her lifeless body, digging the hole, placing the cross and saying goodbye felt painfully natural. I grieved for her, my happy, bouncy, loyal friend. She never judged me. She never rejected me. She was always always there for me. I remember missing her the very most when I would come home. It just didn't feel right somehow. My broken heart healed and I moved on to another puppy and yet another puppy after that one grew old and passed on. I don't regret the love I shared with these 4 legged critters. They softened my heart, opened my mind, stirred passion and dreams in me. Likewise, I don't regret facing their broken and lifeless bodies and placing them in the grave myself. It was a part of the relationship. It was my responsibility to them, my friend.
Today I found the lifeless body of a boy's best friend on the side of the road. My heart just sank and I felt sick. This big black Wolfhound/Lab/Cross was trusted my parents near and far to watch over whatever group of kids were there. While he kept a watchful protector's eye on each child, he paid special attention to "his kids". He could pull them in a sled like a team of Huskies. This, of course, made him famous during the winter months. I trusted him each time I dropped my own children off to play (even if he licked my hands and smelled aweful). Bear, dear trusted, brave and loyal, Bear... We will miss you old boy. We will miss you.
Written in memory of Bear, Josiah Tafts black dog.
It never gets easier, but it's worth it every time.
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