She was three-legged
and fourteen,
which meant
brave by default.
We slept
spine to spine
every night that last year.
My body curved to match
the curve of hers—
like if I molded myself
into her shape,
she’d stay
a little longer.
Some nights
I’d cry
facing the wall.
I didn't want to disrupt her dreams,
her twitching and yowling
like she was running very fast
and free.
Even with three legs.
Even with the shaking.
Even with whatever was happening
inside her chest
that I couldn’t see
but felt
like a countdown—
each wheeze like the tick
of something winding down.
I made her a collar-like friendship bracelet.
It was that first Eras summer,
where I’d stay up late
with grainy livestreams,
and she’d sleep on my pillows
with her eyes open.
I tied it on her
before I knew
what I was preparing for—
red and magenta seed beads,
silver letters:
Roxy’s Version,
around her neck.
I wanted her
to have something
from me,
in case she got asked
who loved her
at the gate.
I wanted the answer
to be
obvious.
We brought her outside
so she could lie
in the dry, scratchy grass.
I laid leopard-print foam pillows
under her head.
I couldn’t stop the dying,
but I could
soften
the ground.
She rested like it was vacation.
Like we weren’t
practicing goodbye.
There’s a battered, rose-gold statue
of a Labrador, ten inches tall,
on our front step.
I spray-painted it years ago—
not knowing
I was making a witness.
The vet looked at it,
then followed us in.
We didn’t speak.
Just walked inside
like it was church,
like someone had already died.
And we sat on the couch—
her head in my lap.
Their voices:
soft, reverent.
I held her ear
between *******,
like it still led somewhere.
I told her
she was a good girl.
I wish I’d told her
she didn’t have to be.
I said,
“I love you.”
But what I meant was,
“Please stay.”
And what I thought was—
what if she wanted
just one more
terrible Tuesday?
What if the birds
were doing something today
that she needed to see?
What if the pain
wasn’t worse
than leaving?
I forgave her body
for failing.
But I still haven’t
forgiven the clock.
I’ve let whole seasons
happen
without telling her
how sorry
I still am.
From the upstairs window,
I watched them
carry her to their van
on a blue stretcher—
small,
almost toy-like.
I laughed when I saw it.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was all
too real,
too stupid,
too soft—
and I didn’t know
where to put the pain.
I watched my mom
and stepdad
hug in the driveway
like they were trying
to keep each other standing.
I hope she knows
I didn’t want
the last thing she saw
to be my tears,
so I gave her the sun.
I don’t know
if I said “I love you” out loud
while her breath
slowed.
She’s at peace.
But I’m still here—
crying in rooms
she used to follow me into.
I hope she knows
I keep her beads
near my bed.
I still wear it
some nights,
when I’m spine to spine
with nothing—
and it’s unbearable.
I hope she knows
she’s the reason
I ever believed
in unconditional anything.
I hope she knows
I made her a bracelet
before I made her a grave.
From a dog
who never asked me
to be perfect,
I still wait
for forgiveness.
I try to be good
for someone who always
believed I was.
She’d say,
“You did your best.”
And I’d say,
“I tried.”
I just wish
love didn’t hurt this much
when it ends
gently.
For Roxy Allisandra McDougal Norman. Adopted June 2010, went to Heaven September 2023.
