Buddy's dying.

Our little Boston Terrier of seven years has a tumor growing on the side of his head and there's nothing we can do.

At least that's what it felt like when I came home from the vet's office last week and broke the news to Buddy's best friend in the universe, my 13-year-old daughter.

Kacie cried. I cried. Buddy licked himself and begged for a doggie cookie.

If I thought there was nothing we could do in the wake of the bad news, I was mistaken. In the days since then, we've been busy indeed. We've been playing catch, going for walks, watching movies, having canine slumber parties with Buddy and TJ, our other doggie. We've also done our share of reminiscing ("Remember when Buddy was eight weeks old and you snuck him in a blanket into the high school Christmas concert and everyone thought you were holding a baby until he started barking?") Finally, we've also been busy just keeping up with all the non-dog-related living that keeps going on because, well, it just does.

We thought we had another couple weeks with the little guy, but we don't. The tumor's getting bigger every day. Buddy's starting to act sluggish. This morning I told Kacie it was time to say goodbye. I told her that I'd made Buddy's final appointment with the vet.

Her bottom lip quivered but then she squared her chin and said bravely. "I want us to make him steak for dinner."

I said, "Of course."

"And mashed potatoes."

"We can do that.

"And I want him to be able to eat in the dining room. On TOP of the table."

"On top of the table?"

"And eat off the good china."

It wasn't only a dog's life, but the last meal of a dog's life. It seemed like a fitting request to me.

That was many hours ago. Now it's nearly midnight. Dinner's over. Dishes are done. Kacie's asleep upstairs, Buddy snoring at her side, and I'm sitting here thinking about goodbyes.

Sometimes when endings are near we feel a little lost, like there's nothing we can do. But endings can be busy times, whether we're saying goodbye to a pet or a person. There's grieving to do. Memories to make. Honor to give. Life to manage. Love to celebrate. Goodbyes to say. Comfort to give and receive, and sometimes even potatoes to mash.

And for some people, like me, there are stories to write.

We'll miss you, Buddy.



Karen Linamen is a motivational and inspirational speaker, and author. Her books include Just Hand Over the Chocolate and No One Will Get Hurt and Chocolatherapy. Karen lives in the Springs and writes for a living. She will also write for chocolate.

Visit her at www.karenlinamen.com
Read more at www.karenlinamen.blog.com
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