Curve Balls, Dog Bladders and Time Warps - Part III (Being the Last Part)

I've been thinking a lot about miracles since we had to say good-bye to our dear, sweet, boy, O. Henry.  In the week-that-was-a year leading up to the moment of farewell last Friday, the word "miracle" was often used between myself and family and friends - Miracle with a capital "M."

"Praying for a Miracle."
"I believe in Miracles."
"Miracles can happen."
"You never know, you could get a Miracle ..."

By which, of course, we meant that Henry would start to show signs of healing and improvement in his neurological function and the possibility to reuse his back legs again. We didn't get our Miracle, but I wonder, on this early Monday morning with just two days between us and our loss, if we short-change the concept with our narrow, specific definitions.

Certainly, there are less painful and acute ways to lose a beloved companion than what we experienced, but there are worse ways as well. As hard, as challenging, as exhausting as those seven days and nights were, we still had Seven Whole Days to demonstrate the depth of our love, the scope of our commitment and the lengths to which we would go to give O. Henry every chance to prevail.

Then, on Friday morning, when the veterinary surgeon at the University of Minnesota confirmed our worst fears, all doubts about the decision to be made were erased. We would never have to look back upon this moment and wonder if we did the right thing.

We got the gift of being able to bring Henry back home. We got the gift of knowing when we would say "good-bye."

And, knowing these were our last hours with O. Henry, my husband and I created, "The Best Dog Day Ever."  There were two, count 'em, TWO Kong Toys smeared with peanut-butter to excavate and savor.   We lifted him, dog bed and all, up into the bay window so he could look out over the yard and into the park beyond the fence. A nearby window was cracked open so tantalizing whispers of scented spring might reach him and spell out the promise of better days ahead - even if it was a promise we could not keep.

One of us was by his side at all times, petting, stroking, rubbing the insides of the world's softest ears. I'm sure if Henry could have described that time, he would have said, "Today must be my birthday."

The last thing he saw was our faces.
The last thing he heard was, "Good boy."

So, maybe not every miracle comes wrapped in fancy ribbons, big bows and undeniable fanfare. Maybe some miracles are just simple gifts.