So many of you have sent me emails, cards, phone calls, and even blog tributes for Murray that I felt I needed to share what his short life meant to me.
Everywhere I look I see little reminders of Murray. Tiny paw prints where he sprinted back into the house after our walks. The foot rest I keep under my desk where he would look up at me with his sparkling chocolate eyes. The way he’d watch the chickens dutifully, as if he knew someday they’d be his to command. But most of all I remember the little kisses he gave me whenever I picked him up.
He got sick, but he recovered despite the odds. Then he got sick again. But we beat that too. We were so close, so very close to making it. Then came the sucker punch from which neither of us could recover.
I was up and at his side every time he whimpered in his sleep or repositioned himself noisily in his crate. At night I’d rock him to sleep and press him close to my body to keep him warm and safe.
I did everything humanly possible to keep him alive. When the vet gave me such rotten odds against beating Parvo I insisted I could do a better job than his skeleton staff during Christmas week. When he said Murray wouldn’t survive kennel cough, I got his lungs clear and got him eating again.
But I couldn’t fight the distemper. Even if he survived, he’d almost certainly suffer irreparable neurological damage. I’ve seen more than my share of death. But sometimes death is preferable to suffering.
I did not rest for the whole time Murray was sick. Not one day. Not one hour. Where I found the strength I don’t know. But I know I did it for him.
He was my baby.
I can’t help thinking I let him down. That maybe if I was smarter, more intuitive, or attacked the sickness more aggressively then maybe things would’ve been different. My logical side says I did all I could. But my heart wants to blame something. It wants to make some sense of this loss.
I’ve never in my life asked anyone to take care of me. But I need someone to take care of me now. I have no strength left.
My boys are finally home. But my baby is still gone.
Words cannot express how much your letters and calls meant to me. I never knew I had so many friends. Thank you.
I need a few more days. I’ll try to be back soon.