I don’t think I’ve ever told the story of Douglas and Mac, my son and my dog.
Douglas died from cancer on September 22, 1998.
My then-husband, seeing my grief, adopted a dog for me to care for during my recovery.
We named him MacLeod after the Highlander and called him “Mac” and before long, Mac and I were inseperable.
That’s a love story in itself, Mac and I.
We camped together.
When I fell in love with a man, so did Mac.
We trusted the same people.
Loved the same children.
Then one day, while returning from a camping trip at the Yuba River, Mac fell out of the cab of my truck on the freeway and was struck and killed before we could get him off the road.
The date was September 22, 2008.
The 10 year anniversary of my son Douglas’ death.
I’m not making this up.
Furthermore, when I checked the pictures I’d taken of us playing in the river a mere HOURS before the accident that took his life, THIS is the last one I took of Mac:
Now in hindsight, I’ve found some comfort in the circularity of my time with Mac.
He will always be my first amazing dog and an extension of the child I lost.