Saddest. Day. Ever.

Today was the saddest day ever. Seriously.

This morning we had to make the decision to put our dog down. Awful.

The difficult, ultra sucky part was telling the kids. Jacob is 9 now and Jessica is 7. Today was the first time in their little lives that they have had to experience grief and loss of any kind. We told them about the dog when they got home from school and it was as bad as you would expect.

I think Jessica said it best when she said, “I think I might be sad forever.”

Obviously she won’t be sad forever but a small (or maybe not so small) part of their innocence has been stripped away. That’s the saddest thing that this mommy’s heart can imagine.

A few months ago my husband guest posted on my blog. He wrote a sweet post about this cute little dog that I pretended to be indifferent about but secretly loved. I thought it would be nice to repost it today.

This photo was taken this morning before his trip to the vet. What a sweet boy… xoxo

What I Learned about God from my Dog

By Jesse Wick (@jessewick)

Nicole loves animals. We have three of them: the cat she had when we met, a narcoleptic shih tzu named Pong, and a pesky maltese/shih tzu mix (malte-shitz?) named Mitzy. The maltese is incredibly dumb, though she does a great job protecting our home from squirrels, toddlers on tricycles, and the miniature pinscher down the block. The cat has a gentlemanly distaste for the dogs and tends to stay in the basement. (The dogs are afraid of the stairs.) But Pong… ah, Pong. The dog I always wanted. The only thing worse than his body odor is his breath. He is morbidly obese. He sleeps 23 hours out of every 24 (this is a rough estimate, not an exaggeration), snoring loudly. His idea of a “walk” is a quick trip halfway up the block to a nearby tree, upon which he dutifully pees, followed by a somewhat slower, panting waddle back home. He has the personality of a loaf of bread. He may be the most useless dog that ever lived.

And I love him.

And that’s the first thing he taught me about God. My love for him is not based on anything he does. It couldn’t be, because he doesn’t do anything except lie around and reek. I just love him. And he knows it. And he depends on it.

Now, lucky for us all, I’m not God. I’m sure God knows why he loves us. All I’m saying is that Pong doesn’t ask for reasons why I love him or worry that I don’t; he just trusts in it. Unlike the malte-shitz, who tries to earn my affection in all sorts of obnoxious and off-putting ways. (“Look! I love you! I’m jumping up and down frantically while snapping at your hand! Look! I’ve killed your daughter’s stuffed animal! Look! Here are the mangled remains of a dead bird I found! Aren’t I great?”) Pong doesn’t need to do all that. He just accepts my love without a blink or a second thought.

Being at home a fair amount during the day, I spend a lot of time around this dog. And I sometimes get that weird feeling that someone is watching me. I’m not paranoid; someone is watching me. Pong. When he is awake and doesn’t have his face in a food dish (which, again, is rare), he is mostly looking at me. Not wanting anything, just gazing at me. You’ve heard the old hymn, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus”? If I were Jesus, Pong would be the holiest living thing within fifty miles. It’s a constant reminder to me of where my own eyes need to be directed.

As a corollary to both of these points, Pong is content simply to be where I am. And by extension, he gets a bit agitated if he isn’t. If I go into a different room for any length of time (including, unfortunately, the bathroom), he will poke his head in there and just stand there gazing at me until I am done. He has a little bed next to ours and can’t go to bed without me. When bedtime is close, he’ll often stand at the bedroom door, huffing and puffing, until I come in with him. He doesn’t need me to stroke him, give him treats, tell him what to do, or anything else. He just needs me to be nearby. Then he can go back to his default state of contented lethargy. I should be so content simply to be near Jesus – without always wanting something from Him into the bargain.

Finally (because this is getting long), Pong counts on me. If he were a psalmist, he would have many names for me: Lord of the Vacuum Cleaner, The One Who Lifts me Onto the Couch (Because I’m Too Fat to Jump Up There), Filler of the Kibble Bowl, My Refuge in the Time of the Veterinarian. He’s not shy about admitting to me when he’s scared; at the vet, he puts his paws in my lap and pants furiously, gazing at me extra hard. He’s not afraid to tell me what he needs, standing in front of the couch or at the back door, doing a little shuffling dance while huffing and puffing pathetically.

You see, Pong doesn’t have an image to maintain.

He just has faith.