I remember the night they took her. I will never forget. We had been laying in her bed, snuggled close. Slowly that night she had started getting cold, her breath shallow. I knew something was wrong. I tried to lick her face to make her wake up. I thought that maybe if she got up and had some milk and a walk she would feel better, but she didn't respond. I started to feel scared, so I began to bark, but she still didn't wake up. Soon after I was barking her parents came. They called her name, they shook her, but she wouldn't wake.
I kept barking and trying to lick her face to wake her. I didn't understand. Her parents yelled at me to get away as they began to beat on her chest to wake her up. There was nothing I could do. I was small, I was scared. I sat nearby and I watched. Soon men in white coats came. They took her away. I did not see her again. After that, there was silence... I was two months old when it happened. But that's not where the story ends.
That night, that lonely and cold night of misery and tears, I had a dream. In the dream, I was on Constance's bed snuggled in her arms. She was warm, holding me close. I cuddled close to her, closer than I ever had, savouring this moment, not questioning if it was real. In this perfect moment she gently turned her head and looked at me, into my eyes. In her eye's I seen rainbows. In her eye's I seen dreams. In her eye's I seen a princess, a queen. In her eye's I saw heaven.
And in that moment I knew that she was gone, and that she wasn't coming back. And in that moment I knew that I would see her again. And all these things I saw in a moment. And as we lay there, I spoke to her, and I spoke to her in the words of a man, and I said in a voice filled with sadness, "Constance why, why have you gone, and why are you here?"
And then I woke. I woke to the morning sun and the sound of silence. In the silence I sat. In the silence I remembered. I remembered my time with Constance, those times of deep joy. All my time with Constance had been special, but the last month had been the best. It had been the best because Constance knew that I understood. She called me her little miracle, and she told me many things.
She told me stories about the world, stories she had heard. She told me of the dreams that she had, and the things she had learned. She taught me about love, she taught me about truth, she taught me to be good to all, even the unworthy. The things she taught me, these things I believed, and I did not question. I did not question because it was her that spoke them, and her love to me was flawless, and I trusted her with my life.
When she spoke to me, I looked with keen interest. So much so, she knew by my eyes and the touch of my paws that I had endless questions. She was delighted to share her stories with me, and she did. But not only these things did she tell me, but others. She told me that she was sick. She told me that she would not last forever. She told me that the doctor's told her family that she may not live to be a teenager.
When she told me these things, I did not ask questions. I did not want to see her pain, I did not want to imagine her gone. She did not speak of these things much. For I knew, we both knew, that if I had a purpose, if such a thing could be had, that it would be found in laughter and not tears. And still to this day when I think of her, I smile, and I laugh, and the tears I shed are joy.