Bambi
It was a blistering, hot day in May of 2009 as I lied in my backyard on the grass next to her. She looked at me with her deep brown eyes and wagged her tail coated in that reddish-brown fur. She licked me happily as I pet her and rubbed her stomach. That was her favorite. She jumped up and followed me as I walked back to the house.
That night I walked outside and grabbed her small, shiny dish. Every night, she would wait impatiently by the back door and squirm and squeal as I emptied a can of her favorite dog food onto her dish. Whenever I walked back outside to give it to her, she could barely contain her excitement as she leaped up and down.
However, this night was different. As I walked back out to give her her food, she lied quietly a couple of feet from the door. She got up, smelled the food, took a bite, and then lied back down.
“What’s wrong, Bambi?” I asked confusedly. “Aren’t you hungry?” I thought maybe she just wanted some privacy, so I left her to herself. However, when I returned the next morning, all of her food was still there.
After a few nights of the same routine, I realized something was wrong. This was not normal for her. After 12 years of feeding her, she had never reacted this way to her food.
It was a Friday morning when my mom and I loaded her into the trunk of the SUV and drove her to the vet. We walked inside with her, sat down, and waited for her name to be called. A few minutes later a lady came out and said they were ready for us. We followed her into a small room, and Bambi lied down on the cold tile.
“So what’s wrong with her?” the lady asked. We explained to her the problem as Bambi looked around confused. The lady then proceeded to examine her while we waited. After a few minutes, we received the diagnosis. Bambi had anemia, a common disease in older dogs where they develop too many white blood cells and not enough red blood cells. She had probably six months to a year left to live, which seemed way too short at the time.
Over the next week she began to improve. She began eating more, and she was acting like her normal self again. I was relieved and thought maybe I wouldn’t be losing her any time soon. I was able to take her for walks around the neighborhood again and play with her in the yard. It was like nothing had ever been wrong.
One day she was acting more tired than usual, so instead of taking her for a walk I decided to just sit with her in the front yard. She lied on the warm grass next to me as I stroked her and talked to her. She was the only one in the world who would never judge me and would always think I was perfect no matter what. We sat there for about a half hour, and I thought about how horrible it would be to lose her.
The next morning I woke up at eight o'clock and got ready to go to piano lessons and then work. As I was walking down the hall to the garage, I saw my parents. It looked like something was terribly wrong.
“Hayley, Bambi’s not doing too well,” my mom said. “She can barely even move by herself. She’s going to die today.”
My whole world stopped. No, it couldn’t be happening. She had been fine just the day before, other than being a little tired. The vet said she had six months to a year left to live, and it had only been two weeks. This just couldn’t be possible.
I walked over to the back door and stepped outside to see her curled up on the hot pavement with her eyes closed. I walked over and caressed her soft fur as she opened her dark eyes to look at me. I could see death in them; she knew exactly what was happening, and that was what confirmed to me that this whole thing was real.
I tried to hold my tears back. My parents came outside, and we had family prayer with her. As my dad said the prayer, he started crying in the middle of it. My dad almost never cries. Once the prayer ended, I got in my car and drove the 15-minute drive to my piano teacher’s house. I was able to contain myself for 30 minutes and basically ran to my car once the lesson was over. There was no way I was going to work that day.
Once I got home, I went straight to my room and let it all out. After a while, I called my best friend, Caitlin, and she comforted me and talked to me about how her dog had died a few months before. I was feeling a little better, so I decided to go out and see her for one last time.
She was just lying there on the grass, so lifeless. She looked at me with those deathly eyes again. I pet her gently and whispered to her. After about 10 minutes, I knew I needed to say goodbye. This was it. I got up slowly and walked back to the house, turning around to meet her eyes for one last time.
Once inside, I went straight back to my room and just lied on my bed and cried. At about noon, I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I got up and opened it. My mom was standing there and she had tears in her eyes.
“She’s gone,” she said shakily.
I walked out to the backyard. Her body lay there so stiff. I sat next to her and stroked her for one last time. Even though she wasn’t there, I didn’t care. It was all I had left. My dad came out, picked her up, and took her away. I was never to see her again.
I had never up until that moment really experienced death of a loved one. I felt so empty, like a part of me was missing. Yes, she was just a dog, but she had been there for me almost my whole life. I was her idol, and she had loved me with a perfect love.
Over the years the pain has dulled, but I still miss her dearly. Every time I come home from college or from a vacation, I see her jumping up and down at the gate and barking like it’s the happiest day of her life. Whenever I walk by the back door, I see her outside wagging her tail impatiently and whimpering. As I sit in my room and write this story, I see her beneath my window looking up at me and pleading with me to come play with her. And sometimes I do. Sometimes I do.
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