(January 17, 2009 – May 21, 2022)

Daisy went to sleep yesterday. I held her head as she faded, first from the anesthetic then as her heart stopped, invisibly, from the second syringe. I last saw her from above as I stood up to leave the veterinarian’s exam room. She was stretched out prone, chin long along the floor, looking comfortable, as I had seen her nap a thousand times. There, but now not there.

Later in the evening, as I passed a window where the sunlight was fading, I felt a pang: she is out there somewhere in the dark and she’s lost and I need to bring her home. My job is to fetch her home. I stopped in the dark laundry room and allowed myself finally to cry muffled into the towels. I seldom cry.

I think of that line from Jane Kenyon’s poem:

“Master, come with your light
halter. Come and bring her in.”

How do they burrow so deep in our hearts?

There, but not now there.
Where are you? Is it dark there and are you scared?
Do you not understand why I took you there?
Your home is at my feet, asleep inside the circle of light from my writing lamp.
I’d give so much to bring you inside.
The Lord said sparrows mattered.
I’ll have to trust he has a gentle leash for you and He tugs along your collar toward His home.

Lord, leave them not alone, these creatures who just want to live, who did not spoil your world with spite the way we did.
Come, master, with your light halter, and bring them all in.

Bring Daisy in for her supper. And may your light eternal gloss her black ears.