Our dog Gypsy died alone. But at least she died at home. In her sleep.
Late last night she was keen for a walk. So I took her out at 10:30pm. Once out she was slow. She sniffed everything. At a couple of points in our lap of the block her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth. She had done the same earlier in the night and we had laughed at how silly she looked.
I unclipped her lead once we got to our street as she seemed to want to do her own thing. Back inside I poured fresh water into her bowl as she ignores anything even a few hours old. She lapped it up. On following me into the garden for her ritual bedtime wee she only wanted to sniff after a hedgehog.
The fire had died down in the living room so she headed in there and flopped on the floor. I can’t remember if I said goodnight as I turned out the light.
This morning she was still warm as my Wife entered the living room and saw her lying there. She called me in a panic and I knew straight away what had happened. There was poo on the floor. Something we haven’t seen for 11 years. I felt for a pulse. Nothing. I shook her. Nothing. I closed her eyes and we all cried. Everyone cried. All holding on to each other.
She was so loved and loved us all back. No matter what. So many adventures. So many miles walked and balls thrown. But all I can think about is if I’d said goodnight.
Always say goodnight. Sweet dreams Gypsy.
For they are far better than us.