Abby

I don't want to write this. Your presence is huge and lingering and I can still feel it. If I write this, it might be driven home a little further that you're gone. I saw your water bowl outside this morning, still full two days later, covered in a layer of ice. I said, "Oh no, Abby's water is..." I trailed off, because I didn't need to finish the thought. I cut the crusts off Mackenzie's sandwich as I was packing her lunch, and I picked them up to carry them to you, knowing you're always waiting for them. I told the kids to stop leaving their snacks in places where you could reach them. I listened for your "twinkle toes" on the hardwood floors in the middle of the night, so I would know it was time to drag myself out of bed for your potty break. I cleaned my car yesterday, and I hesitated to pack away your extra leashes and your collar with your I.D, because I always keep extras for our camping trips.

We got the call about your ashes yesterday. "Abby is ready to come home," he said.

You were an old girl. I know that. I know you weren't living your best life anymore. I know you were in pain. I know it was time. But you were still you, full of love and happiness and the personality of a puppy. You wanted to get up and run, to chase that ball and catch that squirrel and keep up with your kids. I want to believe that you're doing all those things now. That maybe you're eating an entire pizza for once, not just the crusts. That wherever you are, you're with someone who loves you as much as we do.

And I hope you know how very loved you are and how much we miss you. You took a piece of each of us when you left. You were such a good girl, the best girl. Thank you for thirteen years of wags, kisses, unconditional love and unwavering devotion. I'll never forget how special you are and how much you meant to me. I hope I'll see you again someday.