I thought I was coming home to an ordinary day with my children. Instead, one unsettling silence told me something was terribly wrong before anyone said a word.
Sixteen years is a long time to love anyone, and my yellow Labrador (Lab), Frankie, had been mine for every one of them. He was gray around the muzzle now, slower on the stairs, but his tail still thumped against the floor every time I walked into a room.
I was rinsing out his water bowl when my four-year-old daughter, Jillian, padded into the kitchen in her sock-covered feet.
“Mama, can Frankie sleep in my bed tonight?”
Sixteen years is a long time to love anyone.
“Sweetheart, his knees can’t handle your bed,” I said, kneeling to scratch behind my pet’s ears. “But he’ll be right on the rug beside you. Same as always.”
My son, Laurence, six, trailed in behind his sister, dragging a stuffed rabbit by one ear.
“Frankie is old,” he announced very seriously.
“He is,” I agreed. “That’s why we’re extra gentle.”
“His knees can’t handle your bed.”
***
I still had our wedding photo on the mantel, the one where Frankie was walking down the aisle with a tiny satin pillow tied to his collar, our rings glinting in the afternoon light. My husband, Kenny, who loved him like family, cried when he saw him coming. I’d cried harder.
***
Kenny came in from the garage with grease on his hands and kissed the top of my head.
“Mom called again,” he said quietly so the kids wouldn’t hear.
I’d cried harder.
“What did she want this time?”
“Same thing. To ‘pop by and see the grandbabies.'”
I let out a slow breath.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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