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This is the first picture we have of Sunny and Ursa together.

Ursa was an “only child” for the first four years of her life. I vividly remember saying goodbye to her in the early hours on the morning of May 18, 2009 in the middle of the front lawn of our L.A. home. While in the throes of labor, I wrapped my silky, sweet firstborn in a hormone-laden hug, whispered that I loved her and that I was so sorry that her life was never going to be the same. I cried on our way to the hospital, knowing that Ursa was no longer going to be the center of our Universe and that life was going to be drastically different for her now that’d we’d have a human dependent in our home.

While James and I have always felt strongly about raising our children with dogs, knowing firsthand the benefit and joy of a childhood with canine companions, what I had underestimated that morning was the gift that I was in turn giving Ursa by welcoming a child into her life. It took more than a year for her to truly benefit from that human child companionship, but it has been with great happiness that I’ve witnessed the bond between child and dog develop before my eyes.

While James and I are both struggling with the news about Ursa, it has been most devastating to watch it take its toll on Sunny. It’s been difficult to navigate this with a preschooler. How much do we say? How do we explain something that we don’t even understand ourselves?

Mommy, why is Ursa sick? But why did she get sick? But why is she dying? She doesn’t want to die.

She’s had to think far too much about death for a preschooler. And James and I are often at a loss for answers, even for ourselves, let alone a (almost) four year old. She feels so deeply (like her mama), and is so very sensitive and in tune with how others are feeling.

The other morning she appeared in our bedroom dressed in her “Ursa/Hanna dress,” a red corduroy dress with a series of black dogs in the smocking. She selected this outfit on her own accord and then requested that we talk about what we love about Ursa.

Mommy, I love EVERYTHING about Ursa.

Me too, sweetie. Me too.

I started to cry while telling her that I loved Ursa’s soft, silky ears and the way that Ursa moaned and groaned like a drama queen whenever we disturbed her afternoon naps. Sunny stopped me as the tears began to fall and said, “Mommy, we need to belly breathe. Put your hands on your tummy and belly breathe. Now keep belly breathing and I’ll be riiiiiiight back!”

She darted out of the room and emerged 5 minutes later with a bowl filled with potato chips that she’d retrieved from the kitchen.

Here, Mommy, I always feel better when I eat chips and belly breathe.

Me too, sweetie. Me too. (Even at seven o’clock in the morning. Clearly she’s inherited by go-to coping mechanism of eating my feelings. We are not starving depressives, that’s for sure.)

*****

After bedtime last night, I heard her sobbing in her bedroom. The cry was unlike any I’ve ever heard from her. Often her tears are induced by a bump or scrape, or when she’s not getting her way, or when Courtland is using one of her things. But the expressions of sadness coming from her bedroom were so deep, so visceral, so adult. I came and sat by her side and asked her what was wrong and she simply wailed, “I’m just so sad about Ursa. I don’t want her to go.”

Neither do I baby, neither do I.

So last night Ursa slept in her bedroom. And Sunny regaled her with story after story and song after song (although I think Ursa just wanted her to throw the dang tennis ball already).

If anyone has any suggestions about how best to help Sunny with this process or help us better talk to her about it, please let us know. Books suggestions? Resources? We’re floundering, and while there are many moments of sweetness, there is also lots of confusion and sadness and we want to try to minimize that for her as much as possible. Thank you for any ideas you may have.