Usually when I arrive home in the evenings I’m met at the upper cattle guard by Holly, our black lab who-knows-what-else mix that we rescued. She’d been dropped at someone’s house, along with her brother whom we named Buddy (get it, Buddy and Holly? Buddy . . . Holly?) and we adopted them both. Holly is the homebody, rarely ever roaming, always greeting me upon my return and always talking to me. She is probably the most vocal dog I’ve ever met.

But this night was different. It was later than usual and no one greeted me at the cattle guard. When I stepped up on the porch I checked Buddy’s house; he was nestled inside, lazily looking up at me. But Holly’s house was empty and no matter how much I called for her, she never came. Feeling that something was wrong, I went inside, grabbed a flashlight, and began searching the yard, accompanied by several cats and Buddy.

We have a relatively large yard surrounded by a chain link fence that provides a backdrop for a bazillion daffodils each spring and tells us where to stop mowing. Given that we live in the middle of 42 acres, the chances of me finding her could be slim, but I was determined to search. I looked everywhere, circling behind the house, checking under every bush, illuminating the monster in-ground pool that hasn’t been opened in years, hoping she hadn’t gotten into the enclosure and fallen through the rotten cover. As I entered the front yard from the far end of the house, my flashlight caught a pair of green eyes at the farthest corner of the fence, but Holly’s eyes aren’t green. They’re brown. So I continued meticulously searching the shrubbery across the front before finally making my way to the animal that I had assumed was Henry the black cat (since Louisa was with me and P. J. was inside). It wasn’t.

Holly was neatly curled into a puppy ball, watching me as I combed the yard, never answering or coming when I called. As I approached her she waited expectantly but never offered to get up and as I drew nearer, I understood why. A few yards away was a fawn, badly injured by what I could only assume was my dog. In dismay I looked at her and said aloud, “Holly, what have you done?” . . . and at the sound of my voice, the fawn raised its head and tried weakly, vainly to get up. Given the extent of its injuries, rising was impossible and I knew Death was not too far away. Horrified that it was still alive, I retreated to the house, wondering what I could do to alleviate its suffering. All kinds of options sprang to mind, none of which seemed practical but, before beginning to make phone calls and begging for help, I decided I should check once more, just to make certain that help was still needed. It was not.

The next morning I went to the porch to feed the dogs. Buddy was still in his house, but Holly had never left her spot in the yard. I called to her and she stood but instead of coming to me, she went to the fawn. “Ah,” I thought, “the carnivore prevails.” As I watched and insistently called, she sniffed of the fawn, gently nudging it with her nose then slightly tugging at one leg. Then she turned and came to the porch. Neither dog ever bothered that deer, even though it lay in the yard for another 36 hours before we could get it buried. Holly had been guarding the poor little thing after it was injured, not as a predator guards its kill but as a mother would protect her child. Only when she knew she was no longer needed did she leave. Eventually I figured out what had happened and realized I had falsely accused my dog of doing what I believed her nature demanded. Instead she had stayed close by, almost as if she knew that Death was present, as if she did not want something so small and fragile to die alone.

Many of us are afforded the privilege of walking with our loved ones as Death approaches. We leave their side only if absolutely necessary and then for as brief a time as possible. We offer as much comfort as we can, knowing our power is greatly limited, but wanting them to understand they are not alone in their journey. Sadly, there are those times when Death comes quickly and without warning. We lose the opportunity to say good-bye, to make amends, to be the one who holds their hand as they quietly slip from this world to the next, and that loss can be devastating to those left behind. Despite the difficulty of the task, those last heart-breaking days and hours spent with someone we love deeply will be their own reward. We are blessed to be able to share that journey with them. It is a privilege granted by grace . . . a duty born of love.

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