Yesterday we had to let go of our little girl pug, Francoise. She had been hit with a very aggressive form of intestinal cancer. It was time to end her suffering. She was six years old.
Most of the morning I sat with her in the sun next to her favorite lemon tree, reassuring her that we loved her, we would take care of her brother, Rascal and the Little Dude and that it was okay for her to go. It was a beautiful, sad day because I don’t know about you, but most of my days are a blur of activity and worrying and thinking. They’re like dreams on fast forward.
But as I scratched Francoise’s fuzzy ears next to the lemon tree, and then later, placed my hand on her head while the vet administered the euthanasia, I’ve never been more awake, more in tune with the present moment. And I’m so happy, so privileged to have helped someone I loved to let go.
I still tear up when I see Francoise’s leash and harness by the hall door, or when I think about how she’d sit with her hind legs spread-eagled. But then the tears ebb when I see Rascal and the Little Dude come tearing around the corner, off to carry out some mischief. (Last night I caught them trying to get into one of the toilets.) I remember to live in the present, to go running after them without any thought about what I should be writing or what I should be doing. Francoise taught me that. She was a wise little soul.