Click on each photo to enlarge.
My brother and I named her Sally years before we even got her. To this day, I'm not sure why we decided upon that name, but since before I can even remember, we wanted a pug named Sally.
When I was seven, my father picked me up from a friend's house and told me there was a surprise at home. When I walked in and saw my Sally there, I was so happy that I was in shock. Once my brother was home too, I cried because I didn't want to share her and wanted her all to myself. Years later, my parents told me that on that day they considered taking her back because of how sick I looked from shock.
I grew up with Sally. She was my sister and also my baby. She was my annoying sister when she would steal belly scratching from my mom when I wanted my back scratched, and she was my loving sister whenever I was sad and she'd kiss my tears from my face. Most of all she was my baby. She'd always look up with those big glistening eyes, and get whatever she wanted. We all knew that when we weren't home, she'd be practicing her cute looks in order to manipulate us later.
The best part was her personality. She wasn't just a cute, loving dog; she had attitude. She was so smart, but she wouldn't do her tricks unless she knew she was getting something out of it. I could say, "Come here, Sally." And from across the room she'd turn her head toward me and give me that wry look saying, "What do I get out of it?"
And she'd always want everybody's attention. If I was on my laptop, she'd try to sit on it or close it. If I was studying for an exam, she'd sit right on the open textbook in front of me.
She was also such a mischievous little thing, and so clever. Once, she set up an elaborate plan to get our dinner. We were eating chicken, which Sally was allergic to (as biologically disadvantageous as that may be). Since we weren't giving anything to her, she went into another room, grabbed a sock, brought it back to the dining room, and starting tearing at it. As soon as my father got up out of his seat to stop her, she dropped the sock, jumped up onto his chair, and snatched up a piece of chicken from his plate!
I have so many beautiful memories of her from throughout my childhood and adolescence. I'm in college now, and I lost my baby right in midst of growing pains.
Parting with her is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. It's only been a few weeks, and the pain is tremendous.
The worst part is the last memory. About a week before, she had to be hospitalized for pneumonia. She had always had breathing issues (as many flat-faced dogs do), so she wasn't recovering well. It was late in the night, and I was out with my friend when I got a call from home. My father told me that he and my mother were going to head to the vet to have her put down. Immediately my heart dropped. I got straight into a taxi to the vet, sobbing all the way. When my parents arrived with my baby in there arms, I took her into mine. She wasn't even aware of where she was anymore. She was just gasping for breath, her eyes shut. I dropped to my knees on the floor of the vet's and held her tight, tears streaming onto her soft fur. I painfully let her out of my arms so that they could set up the catheter. Finally we went downstairs. I sat in a chair and took her back into my arms, pressing my face against her neck. They gave her the first sedation and her gasping calmed. I could feel her heart, slowly beating against me. Then came the second sedation, and I felt the beating slowly disappear. I felt her presence there for a few moments longer, and then she was gone.
I keep having flashes of that last memory, the feeling of her disappearing in my arms. That's the hardest part, and I hope that soon it will be replaced only by happy memories of her.
She lived a long, happy, pampered life, but I miss her so much. She will forever be in my heart. My baby.