The vet's recommendation to "not wait too long"; my niece's e-mail, arriving at the height of second guessing my decision, included a quote I once shared with her, "Indecision cuts like a dull knife;" and my neighbor's tearful telling of how very sick Ben looked the last time she saw him out in the yard, all felt like messages from God that it was okay. An even before I knew of the futility of his diagnosis my shopping cart had rolled past a giant Kleenex sale display for twelve boxes of 230 2-ply tissues. God knew I would need them.
In the four days between my decision and scheduling the vet to come to the house, Ben was totally cherished. My daughter's and my service was outstanding. On Ben's second last walk to the woods my daughter came along and took a picture of us about to cross the bridge over the Milwaukee River. Just before Ben died I told him he would soon see Bear again and you guys can wait for me. I'll come later. He died with his tail wagging.
What if we could all cherish one another, feel totally cherished, and die with our tails wagging?