Jake and I made the decision last week to give up our precious Murphy, the little, incredible dog who has blessed us with his presence for nine years.
This has been on our minds for a while now, but the final straws came all at once and we knew it was time to act.
- Final straw number 1: Seabass recently pushed Murph with his foot and said, “Get out of the way!” I looked down at Seabass and admonished him by saying, “Don’t talk to him like that, son.” I suddenly felt Jake’s eyes boring holes in my head and turned to ask, “What?” to which he replied, “Um, he learned to do that from watching you, Jaime.” Knife+heart=ouch.
- Final straw number 2: Murph started digging in the backyard, ostensibly out of sheer boredom. You know those neighbors who make me crazy with their nasty, miserable music and debauch-tastic parties at 3:34 AM? Those were the same kids bringing Murph back to our house after he escaped. Unacceptable.
We passed him on to a family that has taken wonderful care of him several times for us when we’ve gone on vacation. And if it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone from the extremely long list of people who love and worship Murph. In other words, we’re not worried about Murph. He is doing just fine.
But when I washed his little food and water dishes, packed up his (disgusting, hairy, putrid) bed, and packed his beloved ChuckIt! toy, I felt like I was packing away all of the golden and free years I spent with Murphy and Jake before our children were born. Into that bag went some of my most cherished memories and experiences. Camping in Big Sur and watching Murph run laps with pure joy in a sun-drenched field. Sneaking him into a hostel in San Diego in my purse. Watching his ears flap in the wind from the passenger side of our old Civic. And, sadness of all sadnesses, picking him up from the animal shelter that spring day a million years ago. Oh, how in love with him we were. All of us were, and are.
But it’s a new season, and not necessarily a kinder one. Of course I love my babies with my whole heart, and of course I’m not enduring chemotherapy like my precious mom, or living with the threat of terrorists or civil war like my friends in Kenya.
I’m not the swearing kind, but there’s no other way to say it. It’s so effing hard.