GOODBYE MISSY

When I was seven years old, my aunt and uncle gave me a puppy. I named him Mickey. I lived with my parents in a city and to keep him with me was not practical. He stayed with my aunt and uncle in a community of less than one-hundred fifty people, twelve miles from my home. A year later, he wandered onto the roadway and he did not survive. I cried my eyes out.

Within the month, my aunt and uncle saved a lost puppy from the same fate. He had large brown eyes and floppy brown ears. He was mostly a beagle and on that day, he roamed aimlessly along a different section of rural high-speed roadway. My uncle stopped the car and opened his door. He leaned out with his left hand, lifted the young, frightened dog off the road and sat him on the front seat next to my aunt. He drove home while she held the small cuddly dog. Soon, on my aunt’s lap, the puppy was fast asleep.

I named my new dog Lucky and I hoped he would enjoy a long and happy life. When I stayed with my forty-something and childless relatives on weekends, most holidays and during summer vacations, Lucky followed me constantly.
During a thirty-year period, my aunt and uncle took care of me, two of my cousins and another young boy. His single mom needed daily child-care too. My aunt, a widow now in her early fifties, was more than glad to take him. With my uncle gone, she needed the extra money.

After high school, I joined the Army – to do my duty. Within a few months, I went to Vietnam for my twelve-month tour. During my year (1967-68), thirty young men in my battalion of 450, that I knew personally, including three from my high school class in other units, died in Vietnam. When my year ended, I returned to the U.S. I was at home three days when I heard shocking news on the radio. A high school classmate had died in Vietnam. We had talked and laughed only two weeks before in the PX in V.N. It was purely a chance meeting and I told him I was going home in two weeks. We met under similar circumstances six months prior. He had just arrived in V.N. Now, he too, was gone. At the funeral home, for the evening viewing, I suddenly felt a panic attack. I knew I would break down and embarrass myself should I try to console his parents. Luckily, for me, they had not yet arrived. I viewed his closed casket, saluted the flag, turned and, in growing haste, departed the solemn building. I hurriedly walked to my car, started the engine and drove out of the parking lot -- tears rolled down my face. I felt a heavy burden of many memories.

The next day, I drove my mom’s car to my aunt’s house. My dog, Lucky saw me from the front yard. He recognized the car and then, he saw me. He began to howl, whimper and whine. He jumped into the air and ran in circles while I opened the car door. My eyes were moist when he jumped on me while I rubbed and petted him. I was glad to see him too! By this time, my aunt stood on the front step. Moments later, it was her turn for hugs and a kiss.

After my twenty-day leave was over, I had seventeen months to go in the Army. In my final month, my aunt phoned me with sad news: Lucky was dead. He chased cars occasionally along a lonely gravel road. This time, he ran to close and ended up under the wheels. I wept silently for my second dog.

Thirty years later, in 2001, I retired and we moved to Montana. Two years passed. We decided to get an adult dog. We adopted a six-year old twenty-six pound orphaned dog. Her colors and markings resembled a Boston terrier. Time passed quickly. The next thing I knew, she was fourteen years old. She suffered from hearing, vision and mobility problems. We made a heart-rending decision. I called the vet and scheduled an in-home appointment. Missy would be relieved from her pain and suffering. On that fateful day, the vet arrived with her medical bag. It contained an injection and it changed all three of our lives. The overwhelming grief hit me suddenly, when I held Missy’s head for the last time. Her sad, nearly blind eyes looked up at me. She was comfortable on her bed and she seemed completely relaxed. She had no fear of anything. I knelt beside her, numbed with sadness. The vet leaned forward and spent a moment to whisper quiet words, inaudible to me, into Missy’s ear. When she finished, she picked up the syringe. The procedure took only seconds. Quickly and silently, Missy’s heart stopped and she went to sleep. Somehow, two minutes later, I pulled myself together to walk with the vet to our down-stairs front door. I thanked her for coming to the house. She gave me a knowing smile, nodded her head and then, departed. Upstairs, we faced the sadness and the loss of our faithful, happy and friendly dog. Except that, age had rendered her physically worn-out. We had planned for Missy’s cremation.

The next morning, I drove the three of us sixty-five miles to the pet crematorium parking lot. There was a sad stillness inside our car when I turned off the engine. Missy was in the back seat, wrapped in her blanket. Suddenly, once again, I felt overwhelmed with grief. Inside the office, the attendant asked me a question. I could not utter a word. My wife had to speak for me. It took a few days for my feeling of loss to diminish. Memories of Missy and the quiet walks we took around our hilltop, or when she would ride in the front seat of my pick-up truck as if she liked having a chauffeur, and how she would sleep quietly in our living room next to my chair, will always be with me. We spent many happy hours together – the two of us and the three of us.

At this point, we do not want another pet. Perhaps, later, we will change our minds. I don’t want to face such crushing emotional loss anytime soon – and maybe never. Goodbye, Missy… Lucky and Mickey. I knew you each at different stages in my changing life. During our friendships, you taught me several things I did not know about myself. Including, how closely attached a human can become to a kind and loyal animal. I will never forget you.