Margo Oxendine

Despite her many health problems, she remained a happy little dog, always wagging, flashing her pretty smile.

I knew the day was coming, and dreaded it. Perhaps I waited longer than I should have.

But, the day arrived. Brownie let me know she was ready to be set free on Thursday, May 19. And I mustered all the resolve and courage I could, and made the arrangements.

For about a year, Brownie and I have been “two old groany girls” when dawn arrived. I’d chuckle to hear our moans and groans as we attempted to get up and greet the day. But we both somehow always managed.

On that fateful morning, however, Brownie “slept in” — she wasn’t waiting there, wagging, at her food dish. I made her breakfast, concealed the heart pills and diuretics and whatever other meds she was taking two or three times a day, and left it on her placemat. She didn’t eat it for awhile.

Instead, she did what she always did after breakfast: Came in and flopped on the floor beside my desk chair as I worked. But, she groaned loudly the whole morning. Finally, about nine o’clock, it hit me: This little dog is in a lot of pain. Her arthritis had steadily increased until it became impossible to even brush her lush, triple-coat fur; she would cry. I took to telling Brownie she looked like “a little ragbag.” She didn’t seem to mind. Tufts of her lovely fur drifted throughout the house.

Despite her many health problems, she remained a happy little dog, always wagging, flashing her pretty smile. She slept a lot. But then, so did I; I was recovering from my second new knee. We napped through most of the afternoon some days. But, we were together.

Her appetite was certainly unaffected ― probably due to one of those pills. She’d gobble down the pile of tasty gravy-covered stew in her dish and then wag over to gaze at me like Oliver Twist.

After I faced the awful truth that Thursday morning, I called Auntie Anne to tell her this was the day we’d been dreading. We both cried on the phone. Our appointment was at 4:30, shortly before the vet’s office closed. I did not want to be there amongst a crowd. I did not want anyone gawking at me as I sobbed and blew my nose.

I was worried about driving home afterward. Could I possibly do that? I put out “feelers” to friends, but most didn’t pick up on my hints and offer to drive us. One did, but she didn’t get off work until 4; by the time she picked us up and drove us to Warm Springs, we’d be late. I thanked her for the kind offer, but told her, “Brownie and I have faced everything together; we’ll do this as we always have: Together, on our own.”

That afternoon, I filled her dish every time she walked past and looked at it.

She gobbled it down. Shortly before we had to leave, I let Brownie outside. She rolled and groaned happily in the grass. She dozed in the sunshine. I watched from the window. “Why,” I wondered, “am I doing this?” Then, she tried to come up the porch steps and tripped. I knew: It truly was time.

I drove with one hand on the wheel, and the other stroking Brownie’s soft, silky fur. When we arrived, there was my friend, waiting. She wouldn’t let me face this alone.

The sickeningly sad ordeal was as “nice” as it could be. I held my little darling in my arms as she drifted away. I cried out loud, and sobbed into her comforting fur. How would I live without her? I did not know. And still do not.

Auntie Anne cried out loud, too. She loved Brownie. We hugged each other, and she told me, “You’re doing the right thing.” I desperately needed to hear that.

Brownie will be cremated. I have a nice, cheerful “Good Dog” treat jar. Her ashes will go in there, and sit on the shrine I’ve created with photos, and her collar with the little pink name tag. Meanwhile, she will wait for me at the “Rainbow Bridge,” where all our beloved pets welcome us when our time comes.

When my time comes, Brownie’s ashes will be buried with me. She’ll be snuggled in my arms for eternity. Somehow, that’s comforting. But still makes me very, very sad.

There will be no more dogs for me. I’ve already had the very best.