Sunday, our beloved dogger Malachi passed away. He was 14. This April would have been his 11th Maliversary with us. These things happen. Circle of life, and all that. Regardless of the logic and science and pure reason, we are heartbroken. The wees are too young to understand. I'm grateful for that. Dahlia had taken to sitting next to him wherever he was and petting him, stroking his ears and his ruff, which he seemed to enjoy or maybe he just tolerated it with dignity. Finn mentioned to me today that Malachi wasn't here because he was at the animal hospital, so I know he understands some of this but not all of it.
There is a horrible tinge of guilt in our sadness - guilt that we didn't realize there was something wrong sooner, that we didn't take him for more walks once the wees came, that we didn't play more fetch on sunny days (even in his old age and with his arthritis, Mali could not resist a tennis ball), that we didn't brush him as often as we once did. I'm trying to move past this and remember the good times we had with him. There were many. He went everywhere with us. He was the ringbearer at our wedding; he came bounding over to us when we called him as if we had rehearsed it a million times. So many beautiful hikes, so many road trips, so many lovely walks, so many silly photoshoots. He was always good for a laugh. And he was an excellent snuggler. He was part of our little family. And we loved him so so dearly.
I've always said that the day I found him was the luckiest day of my life. It truly was. It's not every day that the ideal dog for you walks up to you in front of a laundromat in Long Island City. We'll miss our Mali-Malster. He was a fine dog and a great friend.