It's time to write about Django.

     It is very hard to describe to people who don't understand, the love for a dog. A good dog is a member of the family. A good dog is worth 100 human acquaintances. Django was a good dog.

    Django came to our family in early October. He was just 5 months old. Avalon and I visited our local shelter to say "hi" and saw him. We fell in love with his smile, and his floppy ears. He chewed, he had accidents, and we loved him. He grew bigger, chewed less, had fewer accidents and played a mean game of fetch. He climbed mountains, chased seagulls barked at sea foam, and we loved him. He could jump 5 feet into the air to get a stick. He was silly and beautiful and everything in the whole wide world to us. We loved him. We love him.

    Before we got Django, our big girl Cricket, who had a rough beginning, was scared of a lot of things, she told us by peeing on the floor whenever she was scolded, whenever we looked at her, whenever she met someone new. When we brought Django home, she stopped peeing. They rolled on the floor. They bolted through the forest beside us, together. Wild dogs afraid of nothing. The fought over sticks and tumbled in the sand. Together.

    Django was a great nap buddy, and a great friend. He had a bond with all of our children, but a special one with Flynn. He was Flynn's furry brother. They played fetch almost every day after school. Django was special and beloved. He was cherished.

    A few weeks ago, on a normal Sunday, I decided to take a bath upstairs. Josh and the kids played downstairs. Just as I was about to get out, I heard a noise that eviscerated me. Outside, somewhere, a dog was screaming. My heart told me who it was. I frantically tried to open the window and it was stuck. Still he screamed. I finally wrenched it open and saw my boy in the road, a small thrashing shape in the dusk. Cricket was next to him, seeming to urge him to get up. She pushed him with her nose. He stumbled out of the road. I began to scream then. The dogs had opened our bedroom window. We knew they could and somehow the stick in the window was knocked ajar.

    Josh brought him in. It was obvious that something was so very broken. His back legs were wrong. He writhed in pain. I called the emergency vet, and they told me it would be 1/2 hour before they could arrive at the clinic. I vaguely heard my children wailing, and someone telling me to get dressed. I knew that he wouldn't be okay, but still I hoped. Josh drove and I held him, wrapped in a blanket. He thrashed and cried. We waited in the parking lot for what seemed like forever. I couldn't help him, I couldn't take it back. I sang to him, the Water is Wide, You are my Sunshine. I held him and waited. When the vets arrived they tried to stabilize him. They immediately gave him pain medication and he calmed down. I told him I was so sorry. We kissed him, said goodbye and went home to wait. The vets brought him home. I think they knew but they tried to give us a bit of hope. They stayed with him until he stopped breathing in the middle of the night, though we didn't know until mid-morning.
    I picked him up the next day. He was in a black garbage bag. I sobbed and stumbled and carried him to the van. When I got home, I sat in the garage and held the heavy bag, still warm, and I wailed. I can't remember ever crying so hard. All of my grief in the past has been quiet, private and polite. Out here, in the wild, I can scream for the ones that I miss. I think that people are supposed to scream for the ones that they miss.

    I dug a hole in the rain, still sobbing, and planted a beautiful tree over my boy. When I was done I had a crazy urge to dig him back up and hold him longer. Instead I held my children in my arms and we cried huge, raw tears. 

   It is still so raw. He was so young and so beautiful. He was our friend. 

   Weeks later, my children are no longer crying themselves to sleep. Cricket is acting more normal. I can look at his picture with less of that horrible ache in my stomach. But I can't ever describe how much I miss him. How much I wish that something had been done differently. There is guilt, and there is anger. My son told me that Poppy and Avalon have each other, but that he doesn't have a brother, he had Django. He told me that his heart would be broken forever. I wish that I could take back their hurt and his hurt.

    It's hard to see such a short life as anything other than a waste. He barely had a chance and it wasn't his time. But it wasn't a waste. In reading about grieving, I decided to write a letter to me, from Django. What would he say? He would say that his life was beautiful. He would say thank you for the beach trips, and the table scraps. He would say thank you for the fetch sticks and snuggles. He would say that it wasn't our fault, and that he had a great time during his short stay here on earth with us. That he couldn't have asked for better, or for more. That's what Django would say with his pure doggy-heart, so that's what I hear in my head when I think of him. 

    We have so much love to give, and Django would want us to give that love to another dog in another kennel. A dog with no one. So that's what we will do. Django, who kissed Flynn all over when he got hurt, would not want his boy's heart to be hurt. Django would want his boy and his girls and his big people to love again, and remember him with the joy of a fetch-leap and a wet nose pushing against our neck, first thing in the morning. There is a big risk in loving someone with a short life. 12-18 at the very best is a devastatingly short time. But for those of us who know that love, it is worth it. 

    We love you Django, so much. You were perfect and beautiful. You are missed more than I can say and there is a Django-shaped hole in all of us. We will love to to the moon and back forever. Goodbye boy.