To Bridget

Bridget

This morning at 6:00 a.m. I sat down at the table with my calculator, book, and pencil, trying to clear my brain of morning grogginess and focus on numbers.  Cursed math...

"See ya lateeer, Hannah!" 

"Bye, guys."  And Kirsten and Kayli were out the door, headed to school.  I turned my attention back to my math.  On practice problem one-billion-and-one, Dad came inside from the front door, where the dog house is.

"Bridget died," he said.  I put down my pencil.

"She looks like she went in her sleep..."

Dumb-founded, I managed, "But---what?  But I thought she was getting better?  She was acting so much better...!"

Dad shook his head.  Sitting in her chair by the fire, mom was quiet.  We were all quiet; just sitting. 

Bridget had been sick the past few days.  We gave her some penicillin, and it really seemed to help.  She started eating again; walking around in the grass; wagging her tail.  I went for a run and at the end of it, when I collapsed in the yard, she ran up and tackled me like she always does.

I left the house for my math test this morning and by the bottom of the drive way, tears rolled down my cheeks.  I don't care how old I am, I couldn't help it.  She's gone now---good 'ole Bridget.  I remembered her tripping over her feet as a puppy, chewing up flip-flops and garden hoses, stealing stuffed animals from our bedrooms, digging holes all the way to China in the front yard.  But you loved her, still---everybody did.  To some people it may be far-fetched to describe a dog as having emotion, but Bridget was always dog-gone happy.  Truly she was the happiest, friendliest, tail-wagging-est dog there ever was; a big, red-coated, over-sized teddy bear.  I'd have a bad day at school, finally get home from soccer practice, slump down on the floor, lean my back against the living room couch; and in two seconds, there's Bridget---paw on my lap, head on my shoulder.  This Summer when Kirsten, Jordan and I slept out in the yard under the stars, Bridget was there, too; stealing our pillows and hogging our sleeping bags.  Yesterday, when I went outside and sat on the front door step, breathing in the Fall air and thinking, Bridget lay down at my feet and kept me company.  Yesterday...

God, I'm nobody to tell You what to do, but---dogs and heaven---I think they go together.  There are good dogs and bad dogs, don't you think?  Can the good dogs who were faithful to their families, who loved little girls when they were small, and big girls when they were lonely---can they go to heaven? 

To Bridget, for being a good dog in mine and my sister's lives: thank you.  I hope I'll remember to look around myself at the family I'm stuck with, the boy I'm in love with, and be as dog-gone happy as you always were.

Photos by Kayli Hankins