Until We Meet Again

He died in my arms Thursday night.

As I huddled in the floor of our laundry room where he'd collapsed, cradling his head and stroking his silky, Spock-like corgi ears while he gasped for breath, I frantically called my dear knight and held the phone to one pointy ear so that his dad since the age of six weeks could say goodbye. The door shut to the laundry room, and - thanks be to God - the princesses engrossed in a Disney movie, I gently cuddled him and whispered that I loved him and that it was okay to go. It seemed to be what he was waiting to hear, because his breathing stilled and his heartbeat racing under my hand faded quietly away.

A week after an uncharacteristic seizure (although a lifelong epileptic, his seizures were extremely well-controlled and hadn't occurred in years) and five days after he began losing his sight, his hearing and his ability to walk in rapid succession, our dear Welsh Pembroke corgi passed away from what multiple veterinarians who checked him believe was an aggressive and fast-moving brain tumor. Prior to that wicked seizure, he had been one of the most amazing doggie specimens around - at age 14, he looked and acted like a dog half his age, jumping over anything his short little corgi legs could clear and loving nothing better than running beside Princess E on trips around our subdivision.

It wasn't always that way. When the knight and I went to choose our first "child" from a litter of corgis, he was the runt. The breeder even warned us that we might not want to choose him because she thought he was, in her words, "special." But when I first bent down to get a closer look at the wriggling mass of corgi puppies, he was the one who ran straight up to me, stretched up on those teeny hind legs and licked my nose. How could I possibly choose another after that?

On the ride home, this fawn-colored puppy the length of my forearm cuddled down between me and the car's center console and promptly fell asleep, while we debated names and I stroked those impossibly soft ears that hadn't yet popped straight up in that typical corgi style. (A few weeks later, the right one would pop up, but the left stayed droopy another week or so, which gave him this adorable lopsided look that got him out of more than one of his oh-so-frequent naughty scrapes.) Once we got him home to our tiny starter condo, he sniffed around and then plopped down in the typical doggie sitting pose, but with one noticeable difference - he was so little that one of his legs shook as he tried to keep himself upright, proudly showing us his "big doggie" pose. In that moment, he earned the name that beautifully fit his larger-than-life personality - Elvis.

That "special" little runt turned out to be one of the most beautiful, athletic, intelligent - and mischievous - corgis we, and our vets and groomers, had ever seen. Elvis didn't just learn to speak, he learned to "grunt" a la Tim Allen on "Home Improvement." He was a sleek, muscular, stubborn dog with a stomach of steel and a taste for just about anything - among his most infamous snacks: drywall, a linoleum floor, a Duraflame log (prompting our by-now-shocked-by-nothing vet to say, "Eh, it's mostly fiber."), and a pound of fudge. Contrary to popular thought, the fudge didn't make him sick in the slightest - it took two doses of vet-prescribed hydrogen peroxide to get him to bring it all back up, in typical Elvis fashion, on the light beige carpet of our new home.

Age barely slowed him down. Neither did the arrival of his "brother" Winston, nor the births of two decidedly unfurry princesses, whom he thought were the greatest playthings (or at least the greatest food-droppers) ever - although rather hard to herd, as his corgi instincts dictated he do whenever possible. Sure, he slept a little more in the past year or two, but he was bright-eyed, as fast as ever, and still able to leap up on our bed every night to lay on and warm my feet. The only nights he didn't were those when my knight worked late - when that happened, Elvis would sleep on the landing of the stairs, dutifully protecting his family and no doubt willing to gnaw the kneecaps off anyone who tried to get past him.

As hard as it was to hold him as he died, at the same time I feel incredibly privileged to have been there with him, and I pray that I comforted him as he passed. I am so very sad, but I also know - in my soul I know - that he is running and jumping and playing and herding little ones in Heaven right now, and he will be among the first to greet me when I go there someday. For that - and for the awesome privilege of being his mommy for 14 years - I thank God.

But that doesn't stop me from aching to stroke those velvet ears just one more time, or from knowing that my feet will never really be warm in bed ever again.

Goodbye Elvis - you were indeed "special" in so many ways we could have never imagined. You will always be loved, and you will never be forgotten.