Eleven years ago, a small and sheepish, pink-nosed puppy crawled out of her crate and into my lap. Her foster family was surprised because she had apparently never been one to socialize with other humans. She chose us.
Lottie was always a lap dog – even when she was 85 pounds. We always told each other: if she fits, she sits. The best cuddle-bug with an aggressive nose, always needing to be leaning or touching one of her humans.
A month ago, Lottie had torn her ACL. Her age, combined with having a degenerative Addison’s Disease, meant that she was ineligible for surgery. A week before Mother’s Day, she let us know that it was time.
I always knew it would be difficult and emotional to say goodbye to my first fur-baby. Lottie experienced all the major milestones of my life post-marriage: moving houses, Ph.D exams, writing a dissertation, having children, moving states, publishing a book. But what I wasn’t quite prepared for was the explanation to the children.
The day before, we sat down to watch the new “Penguins” documentary on Disney+. For anyone, like me, expecting a “March of the Penguins”-style viewing, you’re in for a surprise. Within 20 minutes into the first episode, the videographer finds one of the baby chicks dead after a snowstorm. I was shocked. My youngest was very upset and wanted to know what happened. I glanced toward my husband and knew we were thinking the same thing.
Toward the end of the first episode, the youngest chick in the group is having trouble keeping up with the rest as they migrate towards the ocean. The narration prepares us for his getting left behind, and we watch as the fuzzy little creature lays down, seemingly giving up. I just about lost it when my youngest crawled into my lap, tears in his eyes: “Are they going to leave him, Mommy? Just because he’s slower?”
I couldn’t control the emotion in my voice as I tried to reassure him. He cuddled into me and told me that one of his friends at school makes fun of him sometimes because he’s slower at running. I whispered that no one would be leaving him behind – ever – as he sobbed. Miraculously, the little chick pulled himself up off the ice and scrambled to keep up with his friends. A win for the night.
But watching my empathetic 4-year-old try to grasp the situation he saw unfolding on screen made me realize that we needed to prepare him – and my other sons– for the passing of Lottie. He was always the first to crawl into her dog bed to tell her good morning; the first to run over to her and give her a treat when he came home.
As we broke the news, he climbed out of my lap and over to Lottie’s bed. He gave her a big squeeze and then laid down next to her. She seemed to understand because she put her big head on his and gave him a kiss.
He still asks when we’ll see Lottie again. The tears have stopped welling in my eyes as I tell him that all dogs go to heaven. That is – until his brother told him that we see Lottie in the stars, just like Mufasa. We all have our own ways of dealing with grief. And who knows – maybe we will see her again in the stars.
hbozantwitcher@clarionherald.org
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