Forged in the Fire: A Day I Will Never Forget

We all have days that we will never forget. There are some days that, either for one reason or another, become permanently lodged in our minds. I can still remember the moment I became a Christian. I remember when I first cracked a fire hydrant in fire academy, and I remember when I failed one of the final exams. I remember when I finished all three of my novels. I remember where I was when 9/11 happened. I even remember when I beat my first Zelda game.

One such memory is the day we found my dog Isabella. We had been on vacation in Missouri to visit my grandparents, and we were on our way back home. I had to pee and we were in the middle of nowhere, so a stop by the side of the road became necessary. I soon found myself exploring. We had parked by a huge drainage ditch. The hill leading up to the road was rather steep, and at least four feet high with weeds. At the bottom there was a little cement pathway for water. As I was walking, I heard a rustling and saw a red flash. I immediately thought "fox!" and decided to quickly scramble back to the car just in case it was dangerous. As I got back inside though, we all turned back to see a tiny puppy straggle out of the weeds. She was skin and bones, half starved and covered in ticks. The poor thing had been abandoned.

Needless to say, she found a home with us. For nearly thirteen years she was my best friend, my walking companion, my roommate. She slept by my bed nearly every night. A week ago she began to have trouble breathing. A trip to the veterinarian revealed essentially the worst news possible: an advanced case of terminal lung cancer and pneumonia. She was suffering terribly and had a mere week left to live.

Five days later, today, and I couldn't get her to take her medicine. Couldn't even convince her to get up. Despite my best efforts, she also would not eat. In a last resort (after steak, Chipotle, and a breakfast burrito), I even made her eggs. When she wouldn't touch them, and turned her face away, I am ashamed to say I got so frustrated and upset I punched a wall. I was out of ideas. Isabella tried to climb the stairs and only made it two steps before she fell. When she looked up at me, sprawled on the ground, so sad and so resigned, I knew it was over. After a conference with my parents, I had to make a trip to the vet alone. I think my dad would have come, but he was at work in the mountains.

That walk into the animal hosptial was one of the hardest I have ever had to make. I couldn't help crying as I guided my poor, listless dog inside. I cried again as I waited in the exam room while they prepared everything. They sedated her first. It was the first time in a while her breathing had not been painfully labored. She drifted off in my arms, laying her head on my lap. Then the next needle came, the one that took her life away. When it was done, I had to ease her head back. I kept expecting her to move. When I looked at her eyes, I expected them to move, too. It is so strange and absurd to hold someone when there is no life in them anymore.

Though I miss Isabella terribly, I know that she is out there somewhere, perfectly fine. I cannot explain how I know, and you are welcome to scoff if you must, but I know. I am not saying I think, or I'm guessing, or maybe. I know. Perhaps it is a secret privilege of those who have held someone as they left the world. Regardless, where I used to have just a little room for doubt in my mind about the existence of an afterlife, there is now none whatsoever. But that is neither here nor there. I write this post to honor the memory of my dearly departed Isabella. Goodbye my friend, and thank you for looking out for me all these years. Until we meet again.

Today was a day I will never forget.