Flashback Friday

In another example of 'why beat a dead horse' (or dog) when you can flog it till your readers become comatose with boredom,

some pictures of Missy.  She passed away 4 years ago this week.  I have promised that this is her last memorial week post.  A buddy of mine in BFE told me last week to look out the windshield instead of the rear view mirror.  I have been doing a lot of that lately and I gotta shake the past and move on.  Move on.    

                          “...As you got older you moved around more slowly.  Then,

                            one day, old age finally took its toll.  I knelt down and patted

                            you lying there, trying to make you young again.  You just 

                            looked up at me as if to say you were old and tired and after

                            all these years of not asking for anything, you had to ask me 

                            one last favor.

                            With tears in my eyes I drove you one last time to the vet.  One

                            last time you were lying next to me.

                            As the vet led you away, you stopped for an instant, turned 

                            your head and looked at me as if to say, “Thank you for

                            taking care of me.”

                            I thought, “No. Thank you for taking care of me.”

                           

                                                                                             Old Ann Landers Article

                                                                             

                             One last word of farewell, Dear Master.  Whenever you visit

                             my grave, say to yourself with regret but also happiness in 

                             your heart at the remembrance of my long happy life with you.

                             “Here lies one who loved us and whom we loved.”  No matter

                             how deep my sleep, I shall hear you, and not all the power

                             of death can keep my spirit from wagging a grateful tail.

                                                                                               Eugene O'Neill

                             

                              A friend stopped by the other day and he was feeling very 

                              blue.  “I had to put old Tuff down.” he explained.  “It broke 

                              my heart to do it.  I'll never forget the way he looked at me.

                              But it was time and I think he knew it.”

                                   “Tuff was a good dog,” I agreed.  “He lived a long time 

                              for sure.”  

                                   “Fifteen years,” he replied.  “Found him when he was a pup.

                              We had a lot of good times together.  I'm sure gonna miss that 

                              mutt.”

                                    It was a soulful tale, told from the heart and made me want

                              to cry; 'bout a man and his dog, an' best friends and parting, 

                              about having to say “good-bye”. 

                                    He wrapped old Tuff in a blanket, he said, and buried him

                               under a tree; on a hill overlooking a sunlit meadow, where

                               the wildflowers bloom in the spring.  

                                     Place became hallowed, a good dog lies here, 'though his

                               spirit still romps and plays; green be the grass above thee,

                               friend of my better days.  

                                      After a while he fell silent.  And so we sat quietly.  Lost in 

                               dreams of times gone by, of dogs and long summer days.      

Good bye, Missy, old friend, and thanks for being at my side always.