But this morning I'm more at peace with it. I suppose.
(It all still feels terribly unfair.)
I had asked the boys how they wanted to handle things and they both said they wanted to say goodbye. My mom met us at the vet's office, which was nice because she was one of Murphy's favorite people. It was like a living wake in that small room, with us holding him and petting him and promising him he would see Lily and Pearl again soon and offering our ideas on what dog heaven would be like. Murph was so happy to be with us yesterday but there was a certain spark missing from his eyes, like he was already a little bit gone.
Before leaving the room, the boys each gave him one last hug. Big Kid pressed his crying face into Murphy's neck and softly said, "Goodnight," into his ear. That scene is branded into my heart and brain forever. Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight goes around and around and through me.
They left the room and I sat on the floor and held him in my lap for the end, with Mr. Ashley and I telling him he was such a good boy and he was going to get so many treats. It was easy and peaceful for him. It was excruciating for me. It was definitely one of those "Being a grown-up fucking blows," moments but I'm glad I was there and I hope I can go as easily--without conflict, having said my goodbyes, being well loved. The first injection put him into a twilight sleep and I envied that depth of restfulness.
Back at the house, Big Kid said he was glad he went but that he wouldn't be doing it again. I told him that was okay. I don't necessarily want to do it again myself either.
little kid handled his grief by drawing pictures:
The time Murphy swam in from the paddleboard to reach me:
A picture of the ladder to heaven:
Murphy offering to protect Jesus (this one has earned the spot as my most precious possession):
I wish he could come back down. I wish they could all come back down.
And so it goes.
