“German shepherds take the longest to fall asleep,” said the vet in her kind, quiet voice. The kind of voice a kindergarten teacher would have. “They are a protective breed, and even now, she will want to protect you.”

Her words sent another stab of pain through my heart, as my eyes found Mina’s and my hands tangled in her thick fur. I cradled her head in my lap as we gathered on the hardwood floor of our living room, my husband, Sam, next to me. Flashes of Mina’s life played on repeat in my mind like a tribute reel: a large black dog leaping to catch a frisbee in the air, tracking our scents as we played hide and seek in the woods, bumping into walls because she had forever underestimated her size.

“Do you think we are making the right choice?” I asked.

“I do,” said the vet, echoing the advice we had received countless times the past few weeks from friends, family, and veterinary professionals. Though we had scheduled this visit and asked the vet to come to our home, I needed reassurance one more time. 

Mina turned thirteen in October. Born during spooky season, we named her after the heroine from Dracula. Unlike Dracula, she was mortal. Hip-dysplasia, extreme difficulty standing or walking, incurable sores on her belly, an inability to hold her bowels. Through her suffering, Mina’s faithful, attentive, and fiercely protective spirit remained. That was what made letting her go feel like betrayal.

“Are you ready?” asked the vet.

Sam and I exchanged teary glances and nodded.  

Just as the vet warned, as the drug worked its way through Mina’s body, our sweet girl tried to remain alert. She attempted to stand, to insert herself between us and the vet, a stranger in our home. She wanted to do the job she had done faithfully for all these years, protect us.

“Shhhh,” Sam whispered while stroking her back, trying to help her settle.

“Look at mommy,” I said. Her eyes found mine. Large, brown, sweet, loving, trusting. My heart ached. Tears stung my eyes and trickled in rivulets down my cheeks, but I held her face in my hands and never broke eye contact. “It’s okay sweet girl.”

Slowly, her eyes began to droop, and she laid her head in my lap for the last time. Her chest rose and fell easier. As I watched for her last breath, my mind began to spin with future concerns, like how our daughter would handle this.

When Mina took her final breath, I missed it.

“She’s gone,” said the vet.

What? I’d promised myself I’d be fully present. How had I missed such an important moment?  

A jolt of panic that I’d let her down lingered at the edge of my thoughts. I took a few shaky breaths and allowed myself to let the thought go. I focused on the tragic truth instead. Mina was gone.

I never understood grief until that moment.  

I always thought movies depicting the aftermath of death were dramatic and irrational. But as the seconds ticked by, I refused to let go because I knew it would be my last chance to hold her.  

How had I not noticed how velvety her fur was? When was the last time I held her like this?

The vet offered us a burial shroud and Sam accepted. He had spent the past few days digging a hole in the frozen earth of our backyard in preparation for the inevitable.

“I don’t want her to be cold,” I said through my tears.

“She won’t be cold,” Sam said, wrapping an arm around me. “She doesn’t have any more pain.”

“I don’t want her to be alone,” I said.

“We’ll plant a butterfly bush near her grave. We can visit whenever we want.”

***

A large hawk swooped past us as we carried Mina’s shrouded body to the backyard. It was just the two of us now. We laid her to rest inside the earth.

“You don’t have to help with this part,” Sam said.

“I want to.” 

We each grabbed a shovel. My teeth were chattering and the freshly dug dirt piled around us had already frozen solid. Our breath fogged in the winter air as we worked to break up the clumps with our shovels. We sprinkled the smaller pieces over the hole until it began to fill.  

Whoosh.

A roar like a helicopter whirling above us startled me.

What was that? I peered into the sky, but it was empty. I helped Sam finish covering the grave with dirt.

Whoosh. I looked up faster this time. “Woah.” 

“What?” asked Sam, turning to look at the line of trees beyond our back fence.

A massive flock of a thousand black birds propelled off the tree directly behind us in perfect unison, like a choreographed dance.

Black, like Mina.

The entire flock hovered in the air for a moment, like the pause between breaths, before swooping back to the tree as one. 

They repeated this behavior again and again in perfect synchronization. Their movements like the swell of an ocean wave, ebbing and flowing, to and from the trees.  

The thrum of their wings echoed inside my body.  

“What is happening?” I asked, breathless. I’d never seen anything like this.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s incredible.”

There were so many birds that each time the flock took off the entire sky filled with black wings.   

I laughed in sheer amazement because their energy was joyful. Like the feeling of the sun on your skin after a long, cold winter. Like dancing to your favorite song.  Like Mina leaping to catch a frisbee, her boundless energy radiating off her in waves.

We were speechless at the incredible spectacle, and for a moment neither of us dared to say what was in our hearts. 

“You know I’m not religious,” said Sam, finally, “but when something like this happens, you’ve got to wonder.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I nodded in agreement. “It feels like her.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “Energy doesn’t die when we do. Maybe she’s up there.”

My heart swelled with joy and pain in equal measures. “God, I hope so. She deserves to fly.”

I imagined Mina soaring through the wind with the birds, her body strong, as it had been in her youth.

With one last joyful whoosh, the flock lifted again with a cacophony of chattering song. Black wings filled the sky as they soared towards the horizon. The lone hawk circled behind as if escorting them on to their next adventure. The yard grew quiet.

Maybe the birds were just birds. Maybe the hawk was just a hawk. But in the hush that followed, something inside me loosened. Knowing Mina was free from pain didn’t take the grief away, but it softened it.  

My husband took my hand. “I think we did the right thing. This was the last gift we could give her.”

“Me too.”

For thirteen years, Mina watched over us. When her body failed her, when standing brought suffering and protecting brought pain, we repaid her kindness. In letting her go, we set her free.