The Lucky Ones

One weekend when I was in 8th grade, my parents decided to throw a garage sale.  My dad made a trip up to the park next to our house with a handful of fliers. He returned home with a white little puppy that we absolutely, under no circumstances, were going to keep.

Well, we kept her.

She was shy and smart and sweet. And, in no time, she filled a spot in our family we hadn't even known was empty. The way dogs do.

For the past eleven years she was a faithful companion and friend. She would play fetch for hours. Cover your face in slobbery kisses. And became the perfect afternoon poolside napping buddy. She was the first one by your side when you were sad. And could convince you, with big brown eyes, that you really didn't need that last bite.

Tomorrow marks one week since we had to say good-bye to Maddie. Few things resemble the selfless and constant love of a dog. And I am still so very sad that I have lost mine. Going home won't be the same without her wagging tail that never, in eleven years, failed to greet me at the door, no matter how long I'd been gone.

When most people hear the story of how we adopted Maddie, they usually say that she was one lucky puppy. But, as anyone who has rescued an animal before knows, we were always the lucky ones.