This has been a hard week at our house; our beloved golden retriever Meg died.
Last Monday evening she curled up for a before-bedtime nap in the living room. After settling in, she had what looked like a small seizure, and before my husband could cross the room to help her, she was gone, unresponsive.
We were both devastated. Meg had come into our family just when we needed her, and just when she needed us. Our kids and grandchildren loved her, our friends and neighbors loved her – even our postman brought her treats. She was a gentle, loving, lovable dog, and we miss her terribly.
It's easy to overlook how much our pets might mean to our grandchildren. When Carrie came to visit last week after Meg had died, she ran over and put her arms around my neck and said, “Grandma I'm so sorry Meg is gone.”
Later she peeked at me out of the corner of her eye and whispered, “I know what I'm going to give you for Christmas, Grandma – a dog!”
The rest of the grandkids have responded in much the same way. Because Meg was a fairly large dog, she sometimes intimidated the littlest kids til they got to know her. Once they got big enough to sit on her, pet her, play with her, they realized she was a dog they could trust, a dog they could have fun with.
She liked to curl herself up near the blankets of babies on the floor; she liked to grab sticks out of the hands of toddlers in the yard, and she loved to sit under the high chairs of dribblers.
But mostly, whenever one of the littlest ones would come in, her tail would wag, her face would look as if it were smiling, and she would run to find something – anything – to offer that child as they came into the house.
We'll all miss her so.