Heaven Has Never Gotten a Better Dog

She was my first baby, her eyes so bright and intelligent. Her little paws velvet soft, used only for a few weeks before she came home with us.

I remember her sweet, milky breath and that warm puppy smell.

I remember how excited she was, that I needed to sit by her food bowl in order for her to pay attention to her food long enough to eat it.

I remember the first time she barfed up stuff that wasn't food. I couldn't imagine why lint, a small scrap of wire, mulch, and part of something plastic seemed appetizing to her, yet the evidence was clear that she'd eaten all of that.

I remember her surprise when she discovered frogs and they jumped.

I remember long walks in the cool of night. And later, walks with two dogs hitched to the front of the jogging stroller like a team of horses.

I remember her constant affection.

I remember using her for a pillow while napping when I was pregnant with Milo.

I remember that she knew I was pregnant before I did each time I was pregnant. And that she also knew when I wasn't pregnant any more and was mourning losses.

She had a scent -- musky, musty and wise. It was all her own and it comforted me whenever I felt life was too hectic, too spastic, too much.

I miss you, Mo. I miss you when you begged for food (pizza and pork were your favorites). You were never so beautiful as when you begged for food.

You were so smart, so sweet, so very, very kind and patient. You knew who loved you and you loved them back, amply. My children loved and love you. They bore the news of your death with large, sad eyes. Milo's tears spilled into my shirt and Violet watched your body, soaking up the details of your fur as if she was taking a photo.

I have cried for you every night as I sit in the quiet dark, listening to Tessie's melancholy snore and the whirring of my pump. I think of all of the joy you brought me and hope that you will forgive me that the last six weeks of your life were a blur of newborn twins for us. I am so sorry that I just didn't have enough of me to go around and that you and Tess were the ones who got the least.

Oh, my Mo... I hope that you are somewhere dreaming a wonderful dream, chasing pheasants or splashing in a pond or playing fetch with a sweet-faced blond boy in the waning evening sunlight. I miss you, MoMo, and always will.

Mocha Latte
7/9/00 - 5/31/11