Sammy Part 9: The end of the end

June 2014

Mom and I are on the road south to Berlin. It’s strange for me to think that this might be the last time I see this town. It’s stranger still how much of me wants it that way. Nature doesn’t like to offer clean breaks. We almost never know the last time until after the moment has passed. We’re going to Tammi’s house to see Sam, for me this will be the last time. I need a clean break, even if I have to make one myself.

As we wind down the familiar streets and pull up to Tammi’s house, I’m amazed at how easy it is to push these thoughts from my head. We get out of the car, and I walk to the front door, not waiting for Mom.

“Look whose here!” Tammi says from behind the glass front door as Sammy begins her familiar bark. I walk in and immediately begin petting her, she’s happy to see me but she’s not crying. That doesn’t happen until Mom walks in the door. I can see she’s missed my mom so much. I can’t really blame her, my mom is pretty great.

We sit on the couch and Sammy jumps up with us hopping up on my Mom’s chest and licking her as if she thinks she’s still just the tiniest of puppies. She eventually assumes a spot on the couch which Tammi informs us she has claimed for herself. I try to pet her, but she’s too excited to be explicitly interested in me.

Sammy enjoying her new spot.

It takes her some time to calm down before she comes over and properly says hello. She and I wrestle with the tattered remains of a tennis ball she’s torn to shreds. Eventually, it’s too destroyed to play with and so she goes to sit over by Tammi.

There is a part of me deep down that is selfish. That part cringes at this benign gesture with more force than that part of me has any right to exert. However, most of me knows that this is good. She loves us and misses us, but she’s happy here. This place is becoming her home, and I am truly happy for her. They all love her here. Although I cannot imagine anyone not loving my Sam, I genuinely feel that she’s in a good place.

When we leave and get into the car, Sammy watches us from the yard on her leash. She barks at us a few times before I have to turn away.

Mom asks me if I’m okay, and I tell her no. My voice is choked and I can feel the pressurized sting of tears trying desperately to escape, but I don’t let them. Not because I’m ashamed to cry, but because I know I won’t stop. What I don’t tell her, although I’m not sure I could form the words anyway, is that I will be okay. I know this is the right thing; I just wish it didn’t feel so wrong.