It's hard for me to believe that two months have gone by since I have posted to this blog, and when I think about what I may have missed blogging about over that time, I can really only think of one thing.
Sam.
Sam, our beloved first-born dog, is dying. He's dying so quickly, and so painfully, that we have had to make the horrific decision to help him end his life as gracefully as possible, before things are even worse for him. A veterinarian is scheduled to come to our house tomorrow, Thursday, at 5:00 p.m. to do just that. And I'm sad and I'm angry and I'm worried about the part of me that will be empty afterwards.
I could tell you all the steps that have led to this point, but really, I don't want to write about Sam's dying. Not today. Tomorrow is for dying. Today is for living.
And oh, how he has lived. We discovered Sam eight years ago in a shelter, locked in a cage too small for him, and covered in poop.
It was the poop that got us. We gave him a bath before we even left the shelter, and brought him home, and he made us not just a couple, but a family.
What you need to know about Sam is this:
Sam loves to go for walks, and when he goes on those walks, he holds the leash in his mouth, so it's like he's taking you for a walk. He trots along in a funny little kind-of-sideways sort of gait, and even before you snap the leash on, he is jumping up to grab it, to hurry you along in getting the walk started. He likes it especially when there are smelly things to be found on that walk, and if you don't pay very close attention, he will rub those smelly things all over himself.
When Sam hears a noise of any kind outside, or sees someone walking down the street, he will run to you and lean against you to hold you in that spot, as if to say, "Stay here. I will keep watch. I will protect you."
Sam hates storms. He hates storms more than anything in the world, and he barks at that thunder and patrols the house as long as a storm lasts.
Sam loves pizza, with all his heart and soul. If you eat pizza near him, he will stare at you until you give him some, and, truth be told, if you don't give him any, he will growl.
Sam is the best listener of anyone I know. You can pour out your tale of woe to him and he will look you in the eye and take it all in and then listen some more. His eyebrows say everything for him, that he loves you, that he understands you, and that he would do anything in the world for you, because you are his person, and he is your dog.
There is a lot more for you to know about Sam, more than I could ever tell you, and I feel like the luckiest person in the world that I got to know everything about him. That Todd and I got to be his people.
We love you, Sam. We will always be your people, and you will always be our dog.