Checking in on Charlie

I lost my dog, Charlie yesterday. He was 15, arthritic, often confused, and having daily small seizures that left him panicked and panting. He cried a lot. It is always a terrible decision to make, and, while Charlie made it clear he already had his eye on the bridge, I did not want him to go. The night before, I slept on the rug alongside him, his chin on my leg. Every now and then he would open his eyes and look up, checking that I was still there. I spent the next morning and afternoon never leaving his side. He ate a whole bunch of hamburger and lapped water from a bowl I held for him. I took him outside for a while, to sit with the family of Muskovy ducks living in residence on the front lawn. At one point, three adolescent sibling ducks (I call the Three Caballeros) waddled over and sat next to Charlie, blinking their understanding and support. I held his head and talked to him as he passed. "Go ahead, my boy. Go run. There's the creek bed trail right there. Go run, and run, and run. I will be along soon." Two of my kids visited us a couple of weeks ago, and one night we decided to go see a movie. Of course, it was "The Art of Racing in the Rain!" I had read the book and knew what I was in for, yet despite the personal emotion I knew it would draw out, the film actually helped steel me for what I knew was soon to come. Enzo (the dog) decides to return as a human boy, offering Denny (his owner)the assurance that his beloved friend is well and happy, and, while I don't subscribe to that idea, I understand the deep-seated need to know. I need to know -- without a doubt -- that Charlie is well, happy, and living his best life. I got to glimpse that life all the years

he was with me. Is it too much to ask for another peek?