Farrah by Samantha / Samantha

We lost our little Farrah as we were leaving to go to the beach on a beautiful, sunny Thursday afternoon. She had gotten out of the fence as we were heading out, and my vehicle struck that sweet little doggie. The only silver lining in this cold, dark cloud is the fact that the boys weren’t with me. It was just me and my sister. Which I guess in a way was fitting.

My sister was with us the day after mine and and my husband’s first Christmas together as a married couple when that dear, sweet, little five week old puppy entered our lives; and she was with me seven years later when that same cherished puppy left us with only
our many fond memories.

Some have said that the hardest part of pet ownership is the knowledge that you will one day have to say goodbye. I have found this statement to be not entirely true. The hardest part of pet ownership is the day you actually say goodbye, and the days, weeks, and months that follow.

A heartsick four year old, at first inconsolable, moving on to quiet reflectiveness, then asking the impossible questions full of concern and sadness, the childlike voice incongruent with
a depth of thought beyond its years.

The first time you return home to an empty house and the agony in the knowledge that she is gone forever; no wagging tails waiting to greet you, no furry kisses.

A two year old, with no concept of death and its finality, standing in the yard calling out for the beloved pet that will never return.

The things that used to annoy you; such as the incessant clawing at the back door, ruining the newly painted door, are the things you begin to miss the most. You realize that she was only trying to be near you. The silence is deafening.

The habits that you can’t seem to break. Opening the back door first thing in the morning so she can go out. Saving scraps to share with her. Who ever thought that throwing away leftover peas
could fill you with such sadness?

Coming home from church on a Sunday morning, seeing a toy dumptruck out of the corner of your eye, and thinking it is her. The sinking feeling in your heart when you realize that it is not. The amazement at the human mind and its ability to see what it is desperate to see, even if only for a split second.

Staring at the food and water bowls that you can’t seem to make yourself empty and put away. There is something comforting about looking at the little dent she left in her food the last time she ate. The realization that she probably never even took a sip of the fresh water that you poured for her minutes before her death.

But worst of all is the memory of her lying there on the ground motionless that will be forever engraved in my mind. My sister saying, “She’s not moving, Mantha.” Me whipping the car around, and running up to her hoping beyond all reasonable hope that she just happened to take a little rest for a minute and would hop up, tail wagging, once she heard my voice. All that hope was extinguished the moment I saw her little face. There was no blood, but her eyes told me she was gone. While Livi ran into the house to call Mama, I crouched down over that precious baby, hugging her and calling her name as she drew her final shuddering breaths. As my sister and I irrationally contemplated taking her to the vet, she gave one last little shudder and was still. My sweet little puppy was gone. We gently picked her up and took her to the back yard, not wanting my sons to see her should Mama come back by. Mama, in her infinite wisdom and motherly nature, thought of this first and called Daddy to come over instead. Dale Jr. couldn’t have gotten here faster. One look at that white truck coming around from the back of the park opened the floodgates. My daddy, my saving grace, was here to help. The man who can fix anything and make it all better was here. I could let go and cry now. Daddy would take care of everything. After checking for a pulse and confirming what we already knew, giving some much needed hugs and comforting words, he told us he would take care of her and give her a proper burial. And in spite of his painful back problems, he did. Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Mama. And thank you, Sister. I know you all loved her as much as we did.

Night, night my sweet little “Fuh Fuh.” You are sorely missed, and your passing has left our hearts broken into a million tiny pieces. Run free now in Doggie Heaven with your beloved Mahlie and Eli, while we remain here, wistfully remembering the three of you. How precious you were to us and how deeply you are missed.


With all of my undying love,