"There. Now you can breathe."

Spoken in a low, gentle tone, with her hand resting on Daffy's side, those kind words came from Dr. Dixon who put our boxer to sleep.

Daffy had cancer and, as one of the vet techs told me, was "a miracle dog." Not only at her advanced age had she survived a spleenectomy for about two and a half months, but she was putting up a dogged fight against the cancer the necessitated the operation in the first place. We always knew she was spirited and lively and the "alpha" dog in our household, but not that she had such sheer determination.

For the last few days I fed her banana bread by hand, just thanking my lucky stars that I had uncharacteristically made three loaves of it last weekend. We kept waiting for her to have a day that didn't have those bright spots of her wanting to go get the paper with Tom or barking at the mailman (and everyone with the temerity to walk on "our" sidewalk) or the many other little things that put the fun and purpose into a dog's day.

Finally, the tumors spread to her lungs and it took most of her strength to breathe. I took her to the vet on Saturday and sat on the floor with her head in my lap. Lying down made it hardest to breathe but she didn't have the strength to sit up for very long, so on the floor we were. Of course, I was crying. (I made it to the car before breaking down into whole-hearted sobbing.)

Watching her struggle for breath suddenly cease and hearing those gentle words from the vet ... that stuck with me all day. I would recall those words and suddenly miss Daffy and cry while simultaneously being glad that she wasn't struggling to breathe any more.

Tom had taken his mother to a reunion near Houston so I was alone all day. That was fine. I did my errands, albeit sometimes with reddened eyes which clerks kindly saw and ignored. I wandered the house, doing laundry, making spaghetti sauce.

As I was walking through the living room, suddenly thinking again of Daffy and mentally telling her, "I miss you" something startling happened. I am just going to tell you and then you can think whatever you want about it. All I can tell you is that I was astonished.

Like a bullet or a speeding boxer, into my mind simply and without emotion shot the thought, "i'm happy, mom."

Now it is those words that come to my mind. They make me cry some, but I am happy too.