Savannah, Sydney, and I watched, stunned, as a little dappled brown comet shot out, racing in a rainbow arc towards us, landing directly at my feet and flipping, stomach-side up, to stare up at us. I hadn't even touched her yet. "Sold," I announced.
That was fourteen years ago.
Chlo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I trouble-shoot for a living," Brad ground out in frustration, "I fix things. That's what I do." For months, he had adjusted ramps, sleeping areas, and meals to keep our sweet girl comfortable. We no longer cooked for ourselves as we concocted variations of rice, mashed potatoes, chicken, ground turkey, and venison for our little honey. Brad fork-fed and hand-fed her, small pieces, on the bathroom floor.
She was still Chlo. She moved (slowly) to whatever room we were in. Her eyes followed us with interest and concern. That tail always wagged. But she was so tired. And then, one day, standing became a struggle. Breathing became a battle.
My husband fixes things. And on those last two days, he fought so hard to fix this.
And while Brad Mosiman fought, I counted...cursing the prose that rose from my bruised soul.
Chlo drew her last breath right before Thanksgiving and it is just now that I pulled the stapled "Trimester 1: Progress Notes" packet from my bag, where, woven among the questions about expanded form, comparisons and double-digit multiplication, I had scribbled my poetic pain in real time. It is smeared, crumpled, and messy. Terrible. In subject-matter AND form.
Her rib-cage rose
a tiny bellows
fueling her fiery spirit.
I prayed for a sigh
~not a moan~
as, like a glacier, she rose
from her blanketed throne.
I matched her breaths to share her air.
Through the rain,
in their lair,
three vultures perched,
and blindly searched,
her scarce terrain
for signs of life
1
2
3
4
5
6
A cynical smile
that I was counting up.
Not counting down.
Because I could always count on her.
Except commands,
self-taught
She fought
every step of the way.
Cute.
Until now.
Sit.
Come.
Stay.
Please stay.
Brad and I took turns cradling her on our bent knees...stomach-up as we stroked her soft belly fur and soothed her back. We sang to her, thanked her, and thanked God for the gift of her. But, even in the midst of that, poetic fire raged within me:
In fury,
I grabbed a flea
as it attempted
to escape
in a forest of fur.
Fingers red
I wrenched off its head.
"You will not desecrate the dead or dying."
Though it grows somewhat weaker, like a cell phone signal, I still feel her. I refuse to past tense her...I will not add ~ed to my feelings for my sweet little girl...my spirit animal...my comforter...my friend. How grateful I am to God (and Ted & Liz Wolf for their extraordinary veterinary care) for the time we had with her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As I held her tightly during her last few breaths, I whispered all the things she would be able to do again in just a couple of minutes..."You will be able to see perfectly. You'll be able to run and jump fearlessly again. You'll be able to hear. You'll be able to eat everything. Your back won't hurt. Your tail..." I gasped, crying, "No! Please don't change her tail." Her tail made her perfect for us.
And then suddenly, a little dappled brown comet shot out, racing in a rainbow arc, landing directly at His feet, flipping, stomach-side up, to stare up at Him, tail wagging wildly and wiggling happily. Grinning, He stooped to scoop her up, His beard the target of sweet, puppy kisses. Chlo is home.
