“Abish is gone.”
Our much beloved yellow lab, named for the heroine in the second Liken, which we had just finished shooting when she came into our lives, had died.
Abish suffered a brief, but intense illness. Visits to the vet brought some relief, but could not prevent the inevitable. Even so, no one expected the end to come this quickly.
Seeing this fun-loving, big-hearted dog in pain was tough. So in a way, that the end wasn’t prolonged anymore was a relief.
I wrote a post about her (The Battle for Abish) a few months ago, in which I confessed one of my deep character flaws: I’m not much of a pet person. But even I will miss her.
Right now, the difficult end is fresh in our minds. But with time, I think those memories will fade and be replaced by fonder memories.
Memories of the dog who wouldn’t let you ever stop a good tummy rub.
Who always let out an earth-rattling sneeze whenever she got up off her back.
Who could hear the bread drawer opening from anywhere in the house no matter how quiet you tried to be.
Who required no high-tech device to let us witness when she was dreaming about chasing birds or butterflies.
Who would warily steer a wide berth around even the friendliest looking snowman.
Who was sure that anybody who ever came to our house was there to play with her, and was constantly baffled by our efforts to prevent her from delivering the greeting that is standard in the yellow lab community but socially awkward in the human community.
Who never failed to stop to smell the roses (and the lightposts and the grass and the fast-food wrappers and pretty much everything else along the way) on her twice daily walks.
Who always seemed to know who could use a little extra company after a rough day.
Rest in peace, Abish. You packed a lot of life and love into your few short years. Not a bad legacy at all.