February 14, 2024. It’s been a very grueling past few days; we made the hard decision to put down our 18-year-old fur baby, Victor. He had had the best life ever, having gotten to travel all over the country and having gotten spoiled beyond measure. When he turned 18 last June, we began giving him anything he wanted to eat because why not? The last three years had been really hard on him, though, and the once-rambunctuous chihuahua had become very debilitated…doggie dementia, arthritis and a tumor on his tail that had been operated on twice had finally taken their toll. The tumor returned in earnest about a year ago and had recently grown to the point where I was afraid it would burst. When it began to bleed on Friday, I knew in my heart what was imminent, and it wasn’t going to be surgery. I just didn’t want to put Victor through that again.
By Monday afternoon we were on our way to West Kentucky Veterinary Hospital, our vet when we lived here. They still had his records. We’d come to the hardest part about being a pet owner, so when our daughter offered to meet us there, I welcomed the support. She was with me on the day when I adopted Victor from the humane society here in 2006, and now she was with me on his last. I’ve been through this experience several times before, and it doesn’t get easier. In fact, this time was the absolute worst because it was Victor. He was more than just a dog; to us, he was our child.
Victor, the spoiled pup who got to eat anything he wanted (within reason), gorged on chocolate chip cookies and Reese’s peanut butter cups as his last meal. Everyone at the veterinary hospital involved was so compassionate, the process wasn’t at all rushed, and Victor was in my arms when he took his last breath. That was less than 48 hours ago.
When I woke up at 2:34 a.m. this morning, I already had seven hours of sleep. Victor has gotten us in the habit of going to bed around 7:30, so I was well rested. I knitted and drank coffee. I listened to the next lesson in my Bible study. Around 6 a.m. I started making bacon roses for Dave like I do every Valentines Day. Out of nowhere, a wave of sorrow suddenly washed over me and I began crying hard. I missed Victor so much, and even though I knew the right decision had been made, I needed reassurance.
I cried out loud while I sobbed and asked God to give me a sign that Victor was okay. And for good measure, I added “in Jesus’ name” because Jesus himself said, “that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give it to you.”(John 16:23) I wasn’t testing God; I knew He’d come through. I just didn’t know when. I would just have to be watchful.
The smell of bacon baking wafting back into the bedroom woke Dave up. Sunrise had begun by this time and I wandered up towards the front of the motorhome to see if it was colorful enough to bother photographing; sometimes it is. I happened to look down at my collection of ducks that were lined up on the dashboard. Or at least they had been lined up all in a row. But they weren’t now. When I asked him if he’d done anything with the ducks, Dave said ‘no.’ And there’s no one else who could have, or would have.
Is that odd, or is that God?
I know what I believe. There’s no doubt in my mind that was the sign I’d asked God for. Especially given the sense of peace and comfort I immediately felt, I’d gotten all the reassurance I could have ever asked for. What an awesome God He is!
My husband, who’s on the fence when it comes to believing in God, is now rethinking his stand. I don’t blame him; the sign was obvious, though, even to him. Some things just can’t be denied.
The Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth. ~Psalm 145:18