That was 14 years ago. It can't be time to say goodbye.
You gave us more joy than we could possibly have imagined. A large girl with an awkward stare and an uncoordinated gait. Sweet hazel eyes. And the puppies.
Oh, the puppies.
You birthed them with grace and guarded them with silent authority. One look from you and your mate would make for the corner of the yard, sitting obediently for hours (literally HOURS) until you would permit him to draw near, but not too near to your brand new babies.
One of those little puppies is mine. Soft and warm and black as ink.
He's old now, too.
He'll soon follow you through the gates of heaven. Wait for him there....please. He's never been comfortable doing anything alone.
I'll never forget that morning that you ran away. Only weeks old. I took Anna to walk the surrounding streets and cul de sacs, hoping we would find you hiding under a bush or held in someone's arms, waiting for your girl who searched for you anxiously and with quiet fear. I could have punched the old guy who told us he lost a dog, too, and never saw him again. I asked him to please not say that in front of my little sister.
A jogger found you, running along the big circle. We'd never seen her before. We never saw her again.
That's how you got your name. An angel found you and kept you safe. A miracle. Mira.
There are no words to thank you. For your quiet presence, except for the barks in threes. Always in threes. For the countless birds you caught, open mouthed and with deadly accuracy, that you would bring to your girl even though she shrieked for you not to. For finding your way home to tattle on Ben for digging out again. For loving the girl who needed a friend.
You loved your girl. And she loved you.
Goodbye, sweet Mira.
Fourteen years wasn't that long at all.
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