Good-Night, Sweet Prince
And may your noble, cracked heart fly with the angels, for certainly you could fly on earth. Here's what I wrote last November:
It's Mookie's 12th birthday today, and at least for now I want to think of him again as the fastest dog in the park, the one other dogs would chase and then they would cry, realizing how quick he was, how it broke their heart to witness such swiftness and point them out as the plodders they were. I want to hang to all the joy in that speed, that sense of singleminded purpose. To the lift of moving with all of you in the air. Young Mooks had that and more.
So here's to the wonder he was and the sweet old hobbler he is now, no doubt still lightning quick in the dreams he dreams in his daily snoozes, so often guarding a Milkbone he's not even sure he wants, he just knows Nigel doesn't deserve.
Poor Mooks gets to dream those dreams full-time now. He had been losing weight and growing weaker nearly by the day of late, and this weekend it was his breathing that started to go, too. The only gift we had left to give him was to ease his pain, and as much as that was the right choice, it's a "gift store" I don't want to have to shop at too fucking often.
In the mornings while getting ready to go off to work, Mookie would almost always assume his same favorite spot, on the top of the bed across all the pillows, exactly the kind of comfy a greyhound cherishes. Despite finding his perfect perch, if I came up and asked him if he wanted a hug, he'd scoot a bit up the bed to give me room, as if inviting me. And I told myself every day, running late or not (but of course almost always yes), I had to lay down and give him that hug. I cherished all of those moments, telling myself he wasn't going to live forever. Beauty, love, us, you and me--all so insubstantial.
I know that. And I know nothing at all.