I am seven or eight years old and I am laying in my sisters bed with her there right next to me.  I’m wearing a nightgown with some sort of girly print on it and there is only a thin sheet covering my tiny body. It is dark except for the moonlight shining through the window closest to me. As I lay there, my cheek on my pillow, tears rolling down, I am looking out the window toward the moonlight and the night sky wondering how far away heaven is and if I’m looking right at it with my own two eyes. I prayed and prayed that night that it wasn’t far, just right before my eyes, and that Flicka had made it there like my parents had told me when they shared the news earlier that day that our dog had gone to heaven.

There are some memories you will never forget. They are burned into you, into the depths of your soul. This is just one of my own.

Growing up, we always had dogs. Often, we had three at a time. They were part of our family just like I was or my sister or my brothers or my parents. They were one of us. We loved them hard, gave them the best life a dog could ask for, and when we lost them, their absence was felt. There was Flicka, Peanut, Squiggy, St. Patrick, Baxter, Brandy, Puck, Riley, Guinness, Chowder, Buddy, and Christmas, a stray that came a few days before Christmas at which point my father declared that if she was still there on Christmas morning we would keep her. What do you know, she was.

I loved our dogs…all of them. I loved them because they made me smile. They greeted me at the door with a wagging tail, a wet nose, and a sloppy kiss. They listened to my secrets and didn't tell. They never judged me. They somehow always knew when I was sad and they would lay with me and let me cuddle with them. They protected me. They ate my food when I didn’t like it. They did tricks for treats. They fetched the ball when I threw it for them. They even swam and ran side by side with me over the years. But most of all, I loved them because they taught me about unconditional love. They were always there to love me, no questions asked, no matter what. What a special, magical thing to experience in this life.

And so when Flicka was hit by a car and my father took her to the vet and then returned home without her, I was devastated. It was the first dog I remember losing. It was, in my memory, the first time I really heard about or gave thought to heaven. It was the first time I experienced death and in turn, in that moment when I was told that Flicka had gone to heaven, death became part of life.

I felt confused. I felt angry. I felt sad. I felt empty. I felt alone. I felt all the feels we feel when we lose a pet. But I also felt hopeful. I felt hopeful that heaven was a real place where Flicka was healed and happy and playing with all the other dogs in the sky.

Before we got married, my ex-husband and I got a puppy. I wanted a Golden Retriever and he wanted a Polish Lowland Sheepdog. Yes. You read that correctly. A Polish. Lowland. Sheepdog. I had never heard of the breed as it is extremely rare and I really didn’t have any interest in it if I’m being honest, but his heart was set on it and so we went ahead and found one of the only breeders in the area. There was at least one if not two failed litters and so we waited and waited. We waited for what felt like so long that I told him at one point we should just forget it and get the Golden Retriever. Thankfully, we did not. In September of 2007, we made the trip to Maine to pick up our eight week old puppy, Stanley.

Stanley fit in my two hands. He was a black and white fluff ball. The most adorable thing I had ever seen. And he was ours. Our first pet together. Our first new family member. I rode in the back of the car the entire way home holding him and loving him, simply elated to be taking him back to our condo.

Sheepdogs are natural herding dogs and in this breed in particular, being so rare, the herding instinct was front and center. Stanley would nip at our heels trying to push us in one direction versus another. He would follow right by our side using his face to nudge our legs to the left if he wanted to go to the left. And so despite a lot of training, when our son Jack was born in 2013, we knew that Stanley might try to herd him too! And so we did all the things they tell you to do when you have a dog and a new baby coming home for the first time, but you can’t take the herding instinct out of a herding dog.

At first, Stanley tried to nudge and herd Jack too. He tried to push him around with his furry head. But he quickly understood that he was no longer the baby in our house and that herding our newborn wasn’t going to fly and so, in turn, he became Jack’s biggest protector. Stanley always laid next to Jack on the rug when he napped. He laid right outside his door when he was sleeping in his crib at night. He was always by Jack’s side. And for Jack, from the day he came home from the hospital, he knew the presence and the love of his dog, Stanley. When our daughter Anna was born just 13 months later, she began to know that same presence and love.

When I moved out of our home and we got divorced, Stanley stayed there. He had always been the dog that my ex-husband had longed for. While I loved Stanley, I didn’t feel the need and I didn’t feel it was right to take him with me. And so he stayed and protected the house and our little loves when they were there. He stayed and continued to be a companion for my ex-husband, bringing life to the house when our little ones were staying with me. When I would visit or go to pick up or drop off our little loves, I would give him love and treats and tell him I missed him and would see him soon.

Last Thursday morning, my ex and I went together to bring Stanley to the emergency vet clinic nearby. I learned two days prior that he wasn’t doing well. He had been fine one day and then the next, he was barely able to walk, wouldn’t eat, and was having accidents in the house overnight. All of this behavior was unlike Stanley who was so full of life and vigor, always barking and nudging and loving on us. And so when my ex arrived on Thursday with Stanley in the back of his car laying on a blanket, barely able to lift his head, struggling to breathe, looking so tired with his cold, dry black nose, I took one look at him and I instantly knew in my gut that it was time.

We drove together both choking back tears and when we arrived, the vet came out to hear what was happening with Stanley and to take him inside to triage the situation. We waited outside because due to the current state of our world, we were not allowed in. How crazy a time we are living in when you aren’t allowed into the vet with your dog, your own family member, that you know will soon be gone?

The vet called us within ten minutes to say that they had found two tumors, one on his liver and one in his abdomen, and that the best thing to do would be to let him go. We agreed.

Only one of us would be allowed to be in the room with Stanley when he was put to sleep, and so we asked that the vet bring him outside for us where we could say our goodbyes and then my ex would go in for the final moments. Five minutes later, Stanley was wheeled out on a small stretcher wrapped in a blanket. We both broke down, our eyes swollen from the tears, and we had our time to say our goodbyes. In the parking lot. In public. Under the hot sun beating down. How abnormal it seemed to be letting go of our one and only family pet, of our family member, in broad daylight while others waiting for their pets to be done with their visit sat and watched us from their cars. But I guess that’s the world we live in right now. Abnormal and awkward in so many ways.

I felt confused. I felt angry. I felt sad. I felt empty. I felt alone. I felt all the feels we feel when we lose a pet. And I felt absolute and utter heart break at the thought of having to tell our little loves that Stanley had gone to heaven.

There is no instruction book for telling your children that their dog was not feeling well. That their dog was really, really sick. That their dog went to the doctor with Mommy and Daddy to see if anything could be done to help him feel better and the doctor said there was not. There is no preparing for that moment when you break your little loves hearts, steal a piece of their innocence, and share with them that heaven is a real place in the sky, in the Universe, where their dog has gone and been healed and is happy and is playing with all the other dogs. There are no words to express how helpless you feel in that moment as a parent, unable to shield your little loves from loss, watching as death becomes part of their life.

And so I did my best that night to share the news with Jack and Anna that Stanley was in heaven. I watched them in the moments that followed, tears streaming down, my arms around them, and I remembered Flicka and my childhood and the memory that was burned into my soul of when I first experienced loss.

My daughter drew a picture almost immediately of Stanley in heaven with my parents dog, Chowder, who had gone to heaven a few years prior. My son sat trying to process what was happening. We hugged and cuddled for the rest of the night and in an effort to do anything I could to help them feel better, we made the most giant ice cream sundaes with our favorite sprinkles. And then we all fell asleep together in my bed after we finished our prayers, with tears streaming down onto our pillows, thanking God for Stanley who was now watching over us, happy and healed up in heaven.

In this life, we are promised nothing. Often times, we forget how fragile life really is and how close death could be at any given turn. It is experiences like this that tend to remind us to hug our loved ones a little tighter, to tell those around us that we love them, and to embrace those relationships that offer us unconditional love…the kind of unconditional, unwavering love that we learn from our dogs…from our best friends.