Just one more day, Lord. Just one more day. I am petty and I am small and I always come to you and I always ask for things that are petty and small,for I am human. I am a child of the Most High God, and I will ask and I will plead and I will beg you for things that are beyond my grasp because I believe they are not beyond your reach. I will make deals with you that will fall through and I will make promises I won’t keep. You know that. I know that.
But, Lord, he’s my dog.
And if you can’t do that, then give me just one more hour. I don’t want to be the adult and put on a brave face and be the strength my son needs to get through this. I want to cry. I want to break down and be adrift in sorrow because my best friend for the last ten years is leaving me and I will never get to see him again. He’ll never greet me at the door. He’ll never steal my pizza. He’ll never take up all my bed and snore and pass the most horrendous gas ever. And he’ll never be my responsibility again.
But, Lord, he’s my dog.
And if you can’t give me an hour, Lord, then give me just one more moment. I’ll admit it; I’m greedy. I’m a coward. I’m scared. My son is twenty-three, and I know this is a life lesson about loss and letting go for both of us. I don’t want him to learn this lesson. I don’t want to learn this lesson. I don’t want to be the strength. Lord, I can’t find it in me to do anything but hold the child I brought into this world and raised to be a fine young man and lamely promise that it will be alright – and know that that promise is empty and dull and void. I want to be selfish. I want to be the opposite of everything I taught my son to be.
Lord, he’s my dog.
If you can’t give me just one more moment, then please just give me one more memory. I don’t want the very last second of my relationship with this creature you created in brought into our family to be so painful and so rending. I don’t want to be so powerless. I don’t want to be reminded that I’m not the one in control. I want you to take away the cancer. I want you to make everything better. I want you to make me less afraid.
He’s my dog.
Just one more pet on his head, Lord. I don’t want to let him go. His nose is so wet and healthy and cold and he looks at me with such unconditional love. His eyes are as bright as they have always been. His tail still wags with unrestrained joy that threatens to sweep everything off of coffee tables. He can’t be dying, I still have all of these doggy treats left. And they’re his favorite kind.
He’s your dog, Lord.
He likes pizza crusts, lasagna, Snausages, scratches behind his ears, and tummy rubs. Treat him well and let him know I’ll see him after a lifetime of missing him.