Have you ever had that feeling that you just had to do something? That if you didn’t, that pit in your stomach would keep its grasp on you until you followed through with it?

That gut punch hit me mid-dance class last Tuesday, one of the few things keeping me afloat this summer amidst the difficult life of being a foster mom, my parents selling their cabin because my dad is too sick to take care of it, and relinquishing my foster dog back to the shelter despite my deep love for her. 

That gut punch hit around 7:45 p.m., too late to do something about it that night but just in the nick of time. Because the foster dog that I loved so much was on the list to have a behavior euthanasia the following day. I just had to visit my sweet baby Dahlia before the shots were administered. Before it was too late to say goodbye in person. 

I emailed the shelter at 8 p.m. while waiting for a red light to turn green on my way home from class: “What time is it going to happen?” That was all I could do at that moment. Maybe I’d be in time. 

When morning came, I was getting ready to go into the office, looked down and lo and behold there’s a piece of dog food. Dahlia had moved out almost two months previous. Where had that piece of food come from? *Another sign.*

Throughout the day I was distracted enough with meetings and a work baby shower that when the email response came: “5:00”, I couldn’t put too much thought on it. 

3:10 p.m. Another gut punch: “Leave now, you have time to see her. Don’t miss this chance.” I grabbed my bags quickly, sneaking out without saying goodbye. 

3:15 p.m. In my car, I called the shelter, “Please, can I see Dahlia before…?” I’m put on hold. Several minutes pass before I get a response: “Yes, and you can bring treats.”

At that exact moment, five lanes on a busy street were completely open and there’s PetSmart, beckoning me: “Come now, we’re open for just this type of moment.” I crossed all 5 lanes with no problem, bought apple treats at the counter, and drove with purpose to the shelter. 

3:45 p.m. I sat outside the shelter, nervous. I’ve hated this place for the last two months since they took Dahlia back. Even more so when they told me she could be euthanized. And hated them the most when they made me choose to adopt her or she was going to die. If you knew how agonizing that decision was for me, you’d know I needed the biggest hug in the entire world (and several therapy appointments). 

Dahlia loved fiercely her chosen few — my parents, my (former) foster kiddo, and some shelter employees. She hated fiercely other dogs and was scared of strangers. She bit a kid and bit another dog. No one was really injured but that fear I had of her biting someone else and the hostage feeling I had in my home knowing others couldn’t come over told me I couldn’t live like that anymore. I zoomed out, frantically talking to rescue centers, Bruno’s former vet, and dog behaviorists — all of whom told me not to adopt her. It was too risky. Damn, do I love this dog, though. The best cuddler, the sweetest giant lap dog, and the balm to my broken heart after Bruno died. 

So while I had said no to adopting her, I could say yes to being there with her in her final hours. 

3:50 p.m. Dahlia had been given a sedative earlier in the day to make her calm and ease the transition to goodbye. She was excited to see me, but more excited to eat. She was practically stoned, eating so many treats; she even drank water for so long that they finally had to take the bowl away. She loved the apple treats I had bought a few minutes previous. 

The shelter’s foster manager, one of the few people at the shelter she really loved, and I sat for over an hour telling funny stories about her, crying, and giving her constant pets. Our own little funeral, a celebration of life for the dog we loved, but knew couldn’t live peacefully in someone’s home. 

5:30 p.m. The vets came in. This part’s too sad, so I won’t share the details. Though I will share that I told her over and over again what a good girl she was, how much we loved her, and how sorry I was. 

5:45 p.m. Everyone had left, giving me, the “foster mom,” a moment alone with her. I sobbed in pain, kissing and petting my sweet girl. 

5:50 p.m. I got in the car, ready to go get cupcakes for dinner, when my friend calls at exactly the moment I pull my phone out. How’d she know I needed her right that very minute? 

The universe. Just like the universe, within 24 hours of Dahlia’s passing, gut punched me more than once, put that dog food in my sightline, opened up 5 lanes of traffic right as I was told I could visit her and bring treats, and let me hold my sweet baby one last time before she crossed the rainbow bridge. 

It’s been so sad, and I am not okay. But the one thing that I am more than okay with is the fact that the universe stepped in to intervene and let me be there that day. 

So, universe, thank you. Thank you, too, to the shelter’s foster manager and Dahlia’s friends there for taking care of her — and me — when we needed it. Thank you to my family and friends who’ve listened, held me tight, and grieved along with me. Thank to my therapist (I feel like I’m writing the acknowledgement section at the end of my novel haha) for riding the roller coaster with me. And most of all, thank you to Dahlia for choosing me that fateful day we met 11 months ago, for staring at me with your soulful eyes telling me to pick you to take home. It fucking did not end the way I wanted it to, but I was so damn lucky to have been loved by her.