12 short years ago, I reached my little 10-year-old hands in a large puppy pen to grab the runt of the litter. A small white puppy made the perfect match for Sox, her feisty white footed brother. The two served as lovely companions on summer walks, and outdoor projects. The most protective pair, they were solid doorbells sure to scare off any intruder. And after today, saying goodbye to Lily for the very last time, in a puddle of sadness, I am remembering our last times. The last time to buy puppy food, the last time to pick up a new bed, the last time walking to the wood stove with a tail slapping your back legs, the last time feeding her on the way to work, they all come and go and you’re left with the very last goodbye. And I’m sorry to be so dramatic, to give such detail, but as today came and went I found myself caught up in what my childhood was with a pup. A wagging tail accompanying summer nights on the trampoline. A panting puppy sitting in the corn shucks every summer, Lily, and her brother Sox held pieces of my life. Pieces that included supper with everyone at the table. Time when we couldn’t wait to finish our school work, so we could go outside and play. I can smell the cedar chips we put in Lily and Sox’s bed when we first brought them home. When our sun room was their home, not the renovated dinning room it is today. The mornings where we drank an entire gallon of milk at breakfast, and 7 gallons a week. The nights we spent putting on shows on the kitchen counter and playing barbies in a dull whisper because we’d already been tucked into bed; Boy do I miss it. Cause when you’re dog dies, when there have been three before her, you look back and realize you’ve lived days that are long gone. Having to say goodbye to the small puppy I picked out of the litter 12 years ago, was like having to part with what was. It was like having to close a chapter, one I really felt was still being written. Living at home, in my same bedroom, driving the same streets, eating a chicken basket with double fries instead of coleslaw from the Dairy Mart, saying good morning and good night to Lily as I left and returned home, these things make childhood feel like it’s still here. But it isn’t. The chapter of childhood is one that has been written and bound for a while now. A mortgage seals it pretty well. Working an 8-5 concludes old sentences. Graduating college affirms it. And buying a little puppy, picked by 22-year-old hands, out of a small litter, surely starts a new chapter. Thanks for preparing me to love Ginger, Lily, I couldn't have done it without you.
