He gets a little weaker every day. The 100 pound dog that knocked visitors down in the entry hall and jumped up on the bed every night to tuck my daughter in is only a memory, no more visible than the wiggly puppy whose tail wagged his whole body. To say he is a good dog would be a terrible injustice. He is quite simply a deeply loved family member. What higher praise can you give a dog? As he slips away from us a little more all the time, we wonder how we can possibly tell him how much he has meant to us in the four short years we have known him. He can’t understand the word “cancer,” and probably has no idea what is even happening to him, except that he can’t run and jump anymore, feels weak, doesn’t want to eat. Does he know why we hug him and kiss him all the time now? Does he know what all the crying is about, or does it just confuse him?
I don’t know where animals go when they die. I have lost people whom I loved and I am convinced that I will see them again. I have faith in a loving Father that keeps a home for us and has a plan that will allow us to be welcomed there someday. I don’t know what his plan is for Blaise, but I know nothing will feel like home for me without him. There is a great emptiness growing as he slips away. I don’t know how to say goodbye.