If I had known it was the last time I would brush you, I would have complained less.
If I had known how skinny you would get in the end, I would have worried less about you gaining too much weight.
If I’d known it was the last time I’d hear you bark, I would have let you do so with abandon.
If I had known it was the last time you’d lay in the yard soaking up the sun, nose pointed in the air, eyes closed, I’d have let you stay until you wanted to come in.
If I had known it would be my last 3 a.m. potty emergency with you, I’d have been way less irritated.
If I had known it would be the last time you’d come to me for lovin’ and slobber all over me, I wouldn’t have been annoyed.
But this makes it seem like knowing is what would have made me feel better. That’s not true, though.
I knew when you made your visit to Grandma’s that it would be your last, but it still hurt.
I knew when you had your waffle with eggs and bacon that it was your last spoiled weekend breakfast, and still it ached.
I knew when we came home from the steakhouse that it was your last time being excited for the doggy bag of scraps we always brought you, and still my heart sunk.
Here we are, on the precipice of that final vet visit, and my heart is absolutely shattered.
I don’t know how I will say goodbye. I suspect it will be with tears and sobbing and gut-wrenching sorrow.
I don’t know how I will handle the coming days without you. I suspect with a low down grief that even Angus’s sloppy puppy kisses won’t soothe.
I don’t know how I’ll ever fill the void your passing will leave. I suspect I never will.
Goodbye, my Rosie girl. If love truly could have saved you, you’d have lived forever.