My dog died today.
I mercifully ended his too-short life. An abused and lost rescue, he survived cancer surgery twice and a summer of radiation. He survived the emergency removal of a kidney. Yet, he lived his life with joy. His favorite spot was in front of the TV. He had a funny way of spitting out dog treats that he didn’t like. He tolerated the cats. He loved me.
Something went terribly wrong when he collapsed. He saw the leash, bounded up two steps and dropped. Later, I learned that he only had one functioning lung. The cancer had returned.
My dog’s life was a life within mine. It had a beginning and an end as mine will. All life eventually dies of something. I wonder, however, if I will be able to live to my last hour with the grace, courage and beauty of that dog. I hope so. He never looked for pity or demanded anything special. On his last day, I was crumbling. He put a loving head on my hand.
A class act, his name was Dingo.