We found out yesterday that our little dog Jack was run over by a car about half a block from our house, probably Tuesday night. I've been sick to my stomach since I found out, and can't believe this tragedy could occur.
Kayla had the right question this morning: "Why?"
I didn't have an answer for her, though I tried. "These things happen, Kayla, and as sad as it is there's nothing we can do."
"We gave him a good life," I consoled Granger, who worried that he hadn't given the dog enough attention, that he didn't take him for enough walks. He loved that dog and Jack adored his boy. Granger got Jack for his 13th birthday -- Granger's birthday that is.
"It's OK if you think about it and it's OK if you don't," I told Walter when he said he was going to put his hands over his eyes and try to go to sleep.
"Don't think about that, I'm sure that wasn't what happened," I said to Kayla when she woke me in the night to ask if Jack had been smashed. She said she saw a kiwi on the ground at school after someone stepped on it, and she had associated the two. "I'm sure he didn't hurt for a second," I said, wishing and praying that it was true.
"Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for our time with Jack," I prayed out loud, sandwiched between all three kids.
"I'll excuse you from morning classes," I told Granger after hearing his loud sobs in the shower. I called work and said I wouldn't be there, either.
"It has never happened to them," I said to George, who had commented that this is life, that most of his pets had died on the busy street in front of his house. "That's so sad," I said. "I can't imagine accepting that as a child."
We gave him a good life. He loved to run, though, and he dug a hole under the gate and escaped. It wasn't usually a problem -- he came back in 10-20 minutes just fine. I'll admit I let him out to run more than once ... he needed the exercise.
Schnauzers are prone to problems in the pancreas. We weren't supposed to feed him anything but kibble, and for the most part we didn't -- he couldn't have excess fat or he might get sick.
I wish now I'd fed him from my hand every day of his short, too, too short little life.