January 2, 1954 - Anna

I named her today although she died yesterday. While I looked through the blinds at the tuft of still-green grass that was her best monument, the name "Anna" came to me. Now is that a proper name for a dead pup? Through the 3 weeks she had lived she had never been a separate enough identity to require a name. In fact it was nearly impossible to distinguish her from one of her sisters, both fawn, frail and black-masked.

Then one night I found her caught between her mother and the wall. That was the beginning though not the cause. Friday she seemed quiet and disinterested. Saturday Bob and I parted ways, though with the same purpose and destination in mine. He followed the vet's guidance & I followed God's. I had no faith in his way but great faith in mine. His way failed but I do not feel mine failed as well, even though my pup is not still with me. I held her near me all the day long, cradled in the crook of my elbow, wrapped warmly snugly in an old soft challis gown sprinkled with blue rosebuds. I acknowledged all the good things I knew to be true of man and the animals over which man has dominion, lesser only in understanding but not in "health, holiness or immortality". And after I had worked steadily, seriously, and strongly despite frequent bursts of hot tears, I felt sure & confident of God's ever-present, impartial care. Bob spoke for both of us when he said "We have done all we can do" although with thoughts different from mine. My ever active conscience twitched at the thought of 2 such contrasting paths having been used to achieve and reach a single goal. At dinner Bob announced he was gboing to buy some chloroform should it become necessary to put the pup to sleep as the pup's condition looked worse to his eyes. I took the small tyke up in my arms and laid down on the couch with her to wait out the night. She seemed to sleep the large part of the time & when she would stir she seemed to look at me with her soft deep blue eyes in recognition.

Now I know there are many who say an animal, especially of her age, has or can have no sense of recognition. I do not know. All I can tell is of the way she would slowly raise her head & stare at me as though to thank me for my tender care & comforting arm. We laid there, this small thing not much larger than my hand, and I, waiting for a happy sign. It did not come. When a change did come it was in the form of gasps and a slight stiffness. I did not know what to do. I was alone with this small thing that I loved as dearly & as deeply as any mother must love her own child and who had had so little chance to know contentment or discomfort, so little time to be either good or bad, and who needed me more now than before.

I guess now she was dead then, but I was not sure. I did not want her last moments to be moments of pain so in a terrible turmoil I mounted the stairs in a mist of tears to get the small bottle from the bathroom cabinet & a soft, very soft handkerchief. I remember looking in the mirror & feeling shock at seeing my face, blood red & contorted with my crying. I held the soaked hanky to her nose, hating myself all the while, as though this was the fateful act. Finally she lay still in my lap amidst all those blue rosebuds. Her eyes would not close & her tongue betrayed its paling pink. I covered her gently & held her there in my lap while waiting for Bob to come home. During those minutes my sobbing subsided but the whirl of sorrowful thoughts would not. I could only wonder why.

Last night it rained & I found myself thinking the very things I have silently ridiculed others for thinking of their dead dear ones. I felt infinite sadness at the thought of her still-warm body lying in the cold soaking soil. I wished we had kept her until morning, wrapped in her blue rosebuds. And yet I knew & I know now the being I loved was nowhere but where she had always been & I could love her still.

Is all this foolish? I suppose it is but she filled a part of that space that is part of me reserved for my animal friends of whom she was only one of the first.