My Dog’s Getting The Last Laugh; The Chapter I Didn’t See Coming

Let me say, Dear Reader, that you are amazing.

Wonderful.

Clearly, you’re an over the top dog lover, like myself.

The emails have been flooding in ever since I shared the latest chapter of my sweet Darla’s life in the column, “My Dog Is Teaching Me A Final Lesson.”

I shared how my dog has been showing signs of slowing down, how she’s preparing me to let her go after more than 15 years together.

I know, you can’t even think about that with your own dog without pulling out a tissue or a bucket or swimming pool to catch your tears.

You’ve been so sweet to share with me the story of your dog. Of the great love you shared. Of his or her final days. Of how hard it is to say, “Goodbye,” to your best friend.

You’ve also been wonderful in offering advice. Ways to have the vet come over, books to read, videos to watch, poems to read.

The time you’ve taken to help me cope and ultimately grieve has been humbling and overwhelming.

Which leads me to the thing I feel compelled to share this week.

Something I need to let you know, because, well, you and I have that kind of relationship.

See the thing is, my dog is alive.

Not just alive. Very much alive.

Yes, she’s still over 15 years old. Still deaf. And was definitely having some struggles.

But it seems since I wrote that column a couple weeks ago, Darla has undergone a renaissance of sorts. It’s kind of like when you call the dishwasher repairman and have him show up only to watch the darn machine work just fine.

I wake up to emails, texts and phone calls bemoaning Darla’s passing, only to see a dog scrambling to get to the front door for our daily walk.

It’s as if she’s living the old quote, “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

Darla gets the last laugh.

And why not?

We’ve been laughing together since she was a six-week-old puppy and I took her over to a friend’s house for their one-year-old’s birthday party. They freaked out thinking I was gifting them and their baby with a puppy. The punch line was I just didn’t want to leave her home alone.

Darla was probably giggling as I had to email my sweet neighbor, the one who dropped off a condolence card the other day. I explained that he shouldn’t be freaked out if he sees Darla prancing down the street on one of our walks.

She still spends most of the day snoozing behind the couch. I do that thing where I tip toe over to watch, feeling that lump of joy and relief rising up in my throat each time I can see she’s breathing.

Your efforts are not wasted, Dear Reader. The calendar tells me this renaissance cannot last forever. I’ve tucked your email away for the time I will need them.

For now, I’m happy to give Darla this last laugh.