It's So Hard to Say Good-bye to Yesterday

Last night was one of those nights I didn't want to go to sleep.  I could still say I had seen Pepper that morning, stroked her fur and looked into her eyes.  I knew once I went to sleep, I would awaken to the days without her completely.  I'm sure anyone who has lost someone or a pet knows what I'm talking about.  Even though I was completely prepared for her death and had hoped she would die peacefully in her sleep Monday night, I feel kind of surreal today.  I knew I did not want her to go through one more night of potentially struggling to breathe, but then I would be fooled by her moments of sleeping peacefully and still following me around like a puppy.  Even when Scott took her in yesterday morning to be put to sleep, he said she got out of the car all excited.  Scott had explained to our vet we would be okay bringing her back the next day, if he thought we were even one day too soon.  The vet observed her for a little while and noticed her struggling to breathe at times and said he felt like it was time.
I am not heartbroken like with the loss of a person, but my heart is definitely aching, and I sort of feel sick to my stomach sometimes.  I do feel like crying occasionally, but I got most of that out yesterday. 
Putting Anna to bed tonight made me really sad.  (last night we had a babysitter put the girls to bed, because we had a function).  Our routine is that I turn off the lights and sing "Jesus Loves Me."  Then I tell Anna good-night and have to call Pepper out of the room so I can close the door.  Sometimes she's laying there right next to me while I sing, and sometimes she's across the room, but she was ALWAYS there.  Pepper never let me get out of her sight.  Even if she had just gotten herself comfortable, if I left the room to go get something, she would be coming right behind me.  Now that she was older, it would take her a minute or two to discover I was gone, because her hearing was not as keen as it had been.  I put Anna to bed most nights, so Pepper was always a part of it--waiting in the playroom while we brushed teeth, then moving to Anna's room and listening to the books I would read, and hearing me sing "Jesus Loves Me."  Sometimes she would come over to try to snuggle us.  Tonight I was very aware that her presence was not there, and I especially got sad when I left the room and did not have to call her to come out.  It was always "I love you, Anna; have a good sleep; come on Pepper."  She would have immediately followed me into the TV room, and gotten herself comfortable while I typed this.  But not tonight or from now on.  I know we can get another dog in the future, but I am sure that dog will be attached to one of the girls, hopefully the same way Pepper was attached to me.
Like I said, it's very surreal right now, because we spent 10 years together--we got her less than 5 months after we got married, and she was 2.5.  Always the polite dog--she would stand outside at an open door with her paw raised, waiting for you to say it was okay to come in.  Even when she was outside, she would position herself to look in the windows.  Those eyes were always on me--Pepper didn't like crowds, but she would force herself into the middle just to be able to see me :)  Part Doberman, part Lab, she was calm but playful, smart and tidy, with a ferocious growl and deep bark that would often scare people when she was trying to play and talk to you.   I was telling Scott yesterday that her death brings up so many of the hard times we had together--she was there through them all and has seen me shed many tears.  It was so comforting to have her to hold and hug every night while Scott was deployed for 13 months.  Now we begin our next phase of life without her.  I always wondered what that would be like, and we are so fortunate she was so healthy until the end.  It was maddening to know her body was otherwise healthy, but the cancerous tumor was taking over her throat and nose.  My mind is the type to always daydream about what the end might be like so I can be better prepared.  But now looking back, my stomach just churns when I think about saying good-bye in those last moments--that the time had really come.  I struggled with knowing the difference between "killing" her prematurely and putting her to sleep before she got too miserable.  It was so hard to tell with her, because she truly was so happy just to be in the same room with me.  This probably concealed her pain more than I'd like to know, and for that I am grateful that she didn't have to get to the point of constant suffering.
I love her and miss her!  It was sweet when Scott loaded her into the car yesterday morning.  Anna said "Is Daddy taking Pepper to Heaven?"  I said "yes."  Sweet words from a 3-year-old.