For Bella

Bella, our black boxer-lab mix has come to the end of her life and is receiving hospice care. I was a meager twenty-something year old when I purchased her for two-hundred and fifty dollars nearly thirteen years ago. I drove to a farm in a town in the middle of nowhere Maine to pick her up. The last of the litter. I cradled her in the palms of my hands where she fit perfectly at eight weeks old. I was in disbelief that she was coming home with me. What would I name her? I belabored this topic for weeks.

If I had no one in the world, I had this perfect puppy. The first great responsibility of my life. As I carefully carried her in my hands to the car, a little girl ran out from the house next to the barn. “Her name is Bella!” She yelled. “I named her after the girl in Twilight. You have to keep it. Promise me you won’t change it!” She demanded. Who was this girl? Did she do this to every person who picked a puppy from the litter? Wasn’t every dog named Bella? Then I felt a bit of relief. If I did name her Bella, I would never be responsible for deciding what to name her. It felt like the enormous burden had been lifted. I looked at the little girl and told her honestly,  “Sounds like it’s settled then, her name is Bella.” 

Bella spent her first car ride home in a little ball on my passenger's seat terrified and shaking. She didn’t move. I was already fretting. Would she like living with me? Where would I take her to play? Should I let her sleep on my bed or try to crate train her? Would she miss her mom? I had to make sure there was no possible way she would miss her mom.

The moment we pulled into my apartment parking lot, and I put the car into park, she threw up in my cup holder. That’s how Bella and I began our life together.

As I write this she is laying in our backyard on the long summer grass in the shade of a tree, panting heavily, refusing to eat even the sweetest, most peanut buttery of treats. She’s still drinking water, but it almost comes out of her as fast as it enters, resulting in many accidents all around the house. I’ve rolled up the only two sort of nice rugs in the house and left them in the corners of the rooms they once blanketed: the playroom and our bedroom. A reminder every time I walk into one of these rooms that Bella is going to die soon.

June came home on hospice. After she died I thought, nothing will ever be this painful. No death in my life will ever hurt as much. I now had a steel coat of armor that no other death could penetrate. No other death could cause me harm. Turns out, I was wrong. No death will ever be as painful as the death of a child, at least for me, but other deaths still hurt. A lot. 

Losing Bella in the wake of losing June feels cruel. It feels unfair.  It’s something I must navigate for my four year old daughter after losing her sister. I worry about her the most. So I read the literature. I try to say the right things. I probably say the wrong things. I embrace all of her emotions, and tell her everything is going to be alright. I tell her that Bella loves her and that we love her so much.

Bella knows all three of our children. To them, she is their oldest sister. When Bella is outside and the kids and I are upstairs in one of their rooms playing and we hear her whining at the front door to be let in, I always say, “Oh Bella!” Because I likely forgot I let her out twenty minutes before, and yet, she faithfully stays and waits patiently at the door no matter how many times I’ve forgotten to let her back in. I scoop my son up and tell my daughter, “Let’s go! We have to let your sister in.” Our son knows the word “sister”. It’s the word he whispers as we walk through the house past photos of June. It’s the word he whispers as we walk down the stairs to the front door to let Bella in. 

This week Bella will likely join her sister in heaven. Our daughter and I talk a lot about Bella meeting Junie. “Junie won’t be alone anymore,” she told me this morning. She’s so wise. Then she says, “Well she has God, but now she will have Bella too.” And for a moment, I feel so much relief. 

Bella, Boochi, Boochi girl, we love you so much. You are the embodiment of our family. Give Junie lots of licks when you see her. She is going to be so happy to see you.