While tucking my darling youngest in to bed the other night the conversation turned towards dog breeds. At our home, on our farm, the tradition is when you turn 7
if you've shown acceptable maturity and responsibilty in caring for the other farm animals you may earn the privilege to have a dog of your own. So far our sweet, sensitive "littlest" guy has been content with caring and claiming Madison as his own, good thing. She may be the greatest darn dog I've ever known. She was our "if we can keep a dog alive we just mught be ready for starting a family dog". She joined our family 11 years ago and the old gal has spunk and no kidding, she smiles
She started out in a 10 square foot postcard yard and graduated to a plentiful farm. She's protected, comforted, and entertained her way into our grateful hearts. Tonight my little guy asked how long she had, which led to a conversation on death, life, love. It made this Mama remember that bedtimes are meant to be broken and opportunities exist daily to bring it all back to God and his enormous grace and beauty and the heartbreaking, yet necessary willingness to prepare to say goodbyes, that this world is only our temporary home.