you may need a tissue...

Ashlee brought to me tonight an essay she was writing for English. The assignment was to write about a scar they received on their body. Ashlee had a scar but couldn't remember how she got it. There are also other girls in her class that do not have any scars. So the teacher told them they may write about how they received a scar on their heart.

Here is Ashlee's story....

‘”Ashlee Cuillard, please come to the attendance office”. That is what I heard on my way to fourth hour on September 12th. A checklist of questions was running through my mind. Did I skip a class? No. Have I offended someone? Not yet. Did I lose something? Don’t think so. Then what the heck was going on? As I was making my way through the crowded hallway, text messages started flooding in. Messages like “Oooh someone’s in trouble!” or “What did you do now?” were filling my inbox. I just got done answering the last message when I reached the office. I didn't even take a step into the office when I saw my mom standing up against the wall with a blank almost pale look to her face. A couple more steps forward and I see my dad with his arms crossed standing right next to her. What the crap?!? What on earth did I do to have BOTH my parents here? “Let’s go for a drive”, is the only thing my mom has to say to me. I asked her if I was in trouble and she replies with the same sentence, “Let’s go for a drive”. When I finally breathed in the outside air my parents stopped in front of me. I guessed this was when they were going to tell me my wrong doing, which didn't sound too bad compared to what they really had to say to me. “Lizzie is dead” is what my dad finally admitted. I never knew those words could ever be in the same sentence. I felt my knees about to give in. I had to grab onto my mother who instantly wrapped me into her arms. At first I couldn't understand what my dad was saying. She went in to get groomed, how can she be dead? When I finally collected myself, my parents guided me to the car.

Lizzie was my four and a half year old miniature schnauzer. When I say my dog I don’t mean my dog as in she-belongs-to-my-family, I mean my dog as in she’s-mine-I-paid-for-her-she-belongs-to-me. She would always sleep right next to me at night. Whenever there was a gross bug scattering around, she would chase it.

As I was sitting in the backseat of the car, I listened attentively as my dad gave me the details of what caused my Lizzie to die. “She was killed by strangulation. The groomer had her leash on too tight”, my dad said with a hint of anger in his voice. Just as he finished with the devastating news, my mom turned around and handed me her collar. When my hand gripped the collar that was faded in color from too many hugs, I could no longer contain myself. Big crocodile tears swelled in the corners of my eyes. We pulled into the groomers parking lot and made our way up to the horrendous sliding doors. I waited in the outside area of the vet’s office to say my last good-bye to my puppy. Just when it couldn't seem any longer, we were told we were allowed to go back and see her. I was not anticipating this final farewell. Finally, the big gangly nurse in a pink uniform walked in carrying an orange towel. He placed the towel on the cold metal table and uncovered it as if he was revealing a magic trick. What he revealed under the towel was my lifeless almost unrealistic puppy. I instantaneously began to sob over her body. Feeling her cold stiff body was difficult for me to bear. I kept thinking “wake up baby, just wake up”. But she never did. Not ever. After about twenty minutes I had had enough. I needed to go home and get into my pajamas and watch a chick flick with my favorite men, Ben and Jerry. For the first time in my life, I knew what the feeling of numb was. I couldn't eat nor sleep. I just didn't have a care in the world for anything. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry. To some she might have been a dog. To me she was anything but a dog. She was my teacher, my companion, and most of all she was my baby.

She is very blessed on the ability to write. She did not get that from me. She gets that from her dad, her Grammy or her Uncle Robbie. They all write very beautifully.