The cancer was swift. Three days felt like three hundred. On his last day, he tried to stay with us, please us, even trying to wag his tail. I can see it in his eyes though. “Let me go, it’s okay.” HE is trying to comfort ME.
In the early morning sunshine, birds sing. Boomer’s breathing goes from a struggling huffing to a gentle, slower place, gradually getting softer, until nothing. His eyes are open and I peer into those beautiful amber pools and see my reflection, blurry, watery. I lift his warm soft ear and tell him he is a good boy. He hears me, right? That’s what the nurse told me when my father was dying. “Tell him what you need him to know. He will hear you.” I struggle to say, “Good boy, Boomer. We love you so much.”
Silence, no heaving chest, no panting. He is still. We are devastated. He is gone and we are here, humbled to watch his earthly presence vanish and awash in sadness at the passing of this wonderful dog.