01. September 2007 · Comments Off on Beginning to Process My Grief · Categories: General

Angie came into my life when I went to Dee’s house to adopt a black retired broodmama. As Dee was introducing me to the other dogs, she said “This one’s Angela.” Angie got off her dog-bed and walked over to me. I knelt down, and she looked deep into my eyes. Then she licked my chin, and went back to her dog-bed where she stayed the rest of the time I was there.

I met the dog that I had gone to adopt, and she was wonderful, but she wasn’t the one for me. I had already been chosen. Angie chose me when she licked my chin.

Because she chose me,
I have experienced the adaptability of an “old” dog as she learned new tricks.

Because she chose me,
I have learned how much love I can feel for another being.

Because she chose me,
I have experienced the joy of her behavior changing over the years
from aloof to affectionate.

Because she loved me,
she adapted to unstructured routines and routine absences.

Because she loved me,
she accepted the other dogs I brought into our home,
and let them share the space in my heart.

Because I loved her,
there were new beds at Christmas, and no walks longer than her aging legs could handle.

Because I loved her,
there were nights spent on the couch with interruptions every few hours.

Because I loved her,
there were home-cooked meals and special treats, and fewer nights away from home.

Because she loved me,
she stood up for me, balancing on tired legs to show me she was ok
and I could leave on my business trip with a clear conscience.

Because I loved her, I let her go.
My heart is breaking because I couldn’t be there at the end,
but it was time to let go, and I had promised her I would,
because I loved her.

And because I loved her and she loved me,
she will run forever in my heart,
Because she chose me.

-mvy 9/1/07-

angel

p.s. Timmer – My next greyhound will be here by Christmas. He’s still racing in Jacksonville, but seems to be racing towards a couch more than towards the winner’s circle.

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