Not long ago, Sam would have told you that he was familiar with death. Intimately so. He would have said that death didn’t hold any secrets for him, and hadn’t for most of his life. He would have believed that dying was just one of many, many things in which he had become an unwilling expert.
But wonders really never do cease.
The signs were easy enough to brush off at first. A little bit less appetite, a little bit more sleeping. An occasional limp. Just signs of middle age, he thought. They had no idea how old Miracle was when they first brought him home, but that was a dozen years ago now, give or take, and for the bulk of the time he acted more spry puppy than octogenarian.
When Sam finally consulted his vet, he braced for bad news (an old habit of his), and received pretty much what he expected. Cancer, some kind of blood cancer. Common in dogs, but mercifully indolent as far as cancers go.
“How long?” he asked, not even trying to hide the break in his voice.
The vet couldn’t tell him that, not for sure, just patted Miracle’s shaggy head and said, “You’ll know. When it’s time, you’ll know.”
They had another year after that, before things got bad, before the medication started doing more harm than good. Sam didn’t know what Miracle’s life was like before they found him, but he liked to think they, and then he, gave the little guy a good one. He’d only ever known love and safety and security in all their time together. Sam tried his best to comfort him after— after it was just the two of them. And while he couldn’t be sure, he suspected Miracle had endeavoured to do the same for him. To see him whimper in pain as the disease progressed, to watch him lose interest in all the things that used to bring him unabashed joy, and not be able to do anything to help, it was agony.
And so when it was time, he knew. And it hurt, god, this whole new familiar feeling of grief. Of letting go. He feared the trust in the dog’s eyes would break him, he feared that somehow Miracle would know, and feel betrayed.
He did know, in a way, in the magical way dogs and children seem to sometimes know things they shouldn’t. When it was time, when Sam held him and tried to say goodbye, tried to say thank you, Miracle knew. Sam could tell by the way the dog calmly nuzzled away his tears, the way he put a steadying paw on Sam’s shaking hands. It was in that moment that Sam learned something new. He learned that death can be peace. That it can be a gift— given out of pure love and accepted with quiet gratitude.
He closed his eyes as he felt the small body relax and still in his arms. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of thanks to his brother who brought this furry bundle of happiness into their lives so long ago. Thanks for this final gift— the understanding that death, just like life, can be a miracle.
As someone who knows that the loss of a dog is, and should always be, like losing a member of the family, this brought tears to my eyes. I so wish they had shown Miracle joining the boys in heaven. For me, if all the dogs I’ve loved aren’t there when I arrive, it’s not heaven.
