Dealing with Death

We heard of Ranger's death last week. Perhaps we were a touch hasty, but we told the children the next time they asked about our dogs (about once a day).

"We heard that Ranger was poisoned. She's dead."

They wanted details - "Who poisoned her? When did she die?" But when we couldn't answer their questions, they moved on. We shrugged and moved on ourselves.

Last night, my daughter started crying at the dinner table. "Is Ranger really dead? I miss her."
She sat on her daddy's lap and sobbed. She cried as she brushed her teeth and dressed for bed. She lay on the floor and wailed.

I knew how my daughter felt. I remembered how I cried all afternoon after Mum told me that Rudolph died. So I told Boo stories of Rudolph when he was alive - the fastest dachshund in the world with a taste for the females of his species. He would even climb chicken wire to get to the ladies when they were in heat. Unfortunately, he was a bit overeager and didn't quite manage to jump over the top. Instead, he stuck his head through a hole and let go with his paws. He dangled there making strangling noises until we ran out and rescued him. Boo almost laughed.

We moved on to memories of Ranger.
"Remember how she liked to deliver dead rats to my kitchen door?"
"Remember how she liked to eat grapes off the vine?"
"Remember how tiny she was when she arrived?"
"She always knocked we over. She liked to chew on me. She didn't even like me!"

This last was from my daughter. She sounded slightly outraged. She didn't cry anymore.