And I never would've believed I'd be glad I went, but I am.
I sat on the floor, holding Murry in my lap, and Didier was giving him a good scratching as the vet put in the needle. He put his head down, closed his eyes and it was over. They left us with him.
He was so warm.
It didn't feel real.
It still doesn't.
Murry was a gift, bought by relatives after Camille, my 6-month-old daughter, died in November of 2002. Murry became my fur-covered antidepressant. My constant companion. My doddering blond buddy with a three-second memory and a compulsion for licking walls and stealing underwear.
This might seem unrelated, but bear with me a second. Camille's nursery had been a cheery, bright, red-and-white room decorated with ladybugs. In the years since she passed, her father, my daughter, a few close relatives and I have all had these bizarre ladybug experiences. If we're sad or going through something especially difficult, a ladybug will appear. Doesn't matter if it's the dead of winter and we're in the middle of a snowstorm, a live ladybug will land on us.
It's hard to explain how a visit from a bug can feel good without sounding like a lunatic, but it's like getting a hug from an angel.
So, Tuesday night, I was sitting at my computer, writing about Murry and crying, with a fan blowing directly on me, full force. It's a powerful fan not even a full arm's length away. In spite of the wind, the tiniest ladybug landed on my wrist. A half-hour later, it was sitting there still.
Believe what you like. Say it's only a bug at the start of the season for bugs. But I think my angel was letting me know where Murry is now. Who he's with. And that it's OK.
Even if I'm not.
Reach Karin Fuller at karinful...@gmail.com.