I was relieved when AdMo arrived.

AdMo is short for Adventure Mom. She’s the one who joins us on a lot of our backpacking and white-water rafting trips. She is a substitute warm lap for when my mom is busy setting up her tent, brushing her teeth, or collecting water for dinner. I’m always looking for a warm lap. I run cold, but I’m just a nine-pound Yorkshire terrier.

AdMo was the first person to walk through the door that morning whom I knew. I sighed with relief when she walked into the bedroom. I was lying on my dad on the bedroom floor. I was trying to keep him warm for a change. He was cold. My mom was sad. She cried so much. The windows were wide open. The breeze was strong, blowing through the bedroom windows. The room was chilly from the cool morning breeze. I tried not to shiver. The willows outside the windows were rustling in the wind, but mostly the sounds came from mom that morning.

The morning started with crying and confusion. It was not our typical Saturday morning. Strangers with uniforms were in and out of the house. I was glad when they put my dad on the floor so I could lie with him. Two of the strangers pushed on his chest and shoved a tube down his throat. It was chaotic for a bit, and then they left. The other two uniformed men stayed all morning.

I knew what was happening. My goofy sister, the Labrador retriever, did not. She was running around the house like a crazy ass lab does, greeting all of these strangers as if she knew them and they were here to see her. I was staying out of the way. It’s easy to step on a Yorkie.

This was my adopted family. I had been through this before with my original human mom. I spent hours in her lap at the nursing home facility. I was there when she died, too.

I remember being removed from my original mom’s lap and carried by this big, big, strong man, my new dad. Did he know he could crush me with those hands of his? I was not happy about changing families. My life was slow and comfortable in the nursing home. I was placed in a large truck with a hyperactive yellow lab and this big man who drove with wild abandon, passing on double lines, honking, complaining about the other drivers. What was I going to? We arrived at my new house, where I found my new mom and took to her lap, where I felt safe. They took me in and treated me like a part of the family. I was happy. I transformed from nursing home Yorkie to adventure Yorkie, including my own life jacket, puffy coat, and even a dry suit. It didn’t take long to love my new life and my new family.

My dad was communicating with me, just like my original mom had when she died. The communication is so much better in spirit form. It put me at ease with both of their deaths. My mom was too devastated to communicate with him. I wished I could help her. She was so sad.

AdMo would come and go from the room, meeting people who came to help, making phone calls to Dad’s relatives. She would sit with my mom on the floor next to my dad. That was when the hyper lab would join us. AdMo must have given the lab some stability, as she would lie up next to AdMo, and Mom would cry. Mom would touch Dad. You could see he was cold, as his lips had lost their color. Mom cried that she would never see him again. “How could this be happening?” she would repeat. “How can I go on without him?” Her heart was breaking. She was in shock. We all were really. There had been no sign that this was coming. He had died in his sleep. A perfectly healthy man on the surface. An active, physically fit, full of life, happy, fifty-three year old man.

Eventually, another man in a uniform came into the room. He said he needed to take pictures if we could walk out of the room for a bit. I stayed. He took the blanket off that I was lying on. I hopped off, but stayed by Dad’s side as the bald man with a compassionate face took photos. He took the tube out of Dad’s mouth, the stickers off of his chest, and covered him back up with the quilt from the bed. I jumped back up on him; he was colder, the color gone from his face now, but still so peaceful looking. I couldn’t get over how peaceful he looked this whole time. It gave me comfort. I wish it gave my mom comfort. She couldn’t walk more than ten steps without collapsing onto the ground. Her friends stayed by her side, held her, and gave her words of encouragement. There were moments I was with Dad alone, and Mom would go blow her nose or talk to the bald man with the compassionate face, but I never left.

The next strangers to show up were not in uniform. They looked more like they were going out to dinner, except that it was 8:30 in the morning. He wore a collared shirt and slacks; she wore a skirt and blouse. Their faces were solemn, professionally solemn. Mom and AdMo stayed as Mom kept saying this was the last time she would see him. AdMo told her it was not him. He is with you now; that is not him. AdMo helped mom stand up and walked her out of the bedroom. I stayed and was nudged off the blanket for the last time. The solemn-faced people and the bald compassionate man managed to move my Dad onto a wheeled bed. I remembered the same thing happening to my original mom. They covered him with a new blanket and wheeled him out of the bedroom. I followed. No one noticed me, that is my super power, but also how I get stepped on a lot. Mom came in from the back deck to see him as they wheeled him through the kitchen. Dad’s friends moved some furniture and they took him out the front door. Mom collapsed again in the kitchen.

Now that Dad was gone, I had to stay with Mom. That’s what Dad had told me in the bedroom. Mom still has a warm lap. Mom went out the front door before the van left with Dad. She wanted to see him one more time. The well-dressed, solemn-faced man opened the door for her to have one more look.

Somehow, we all ended up in the living room. Mom, AdMo, Dad’s two friends, me, and the lab. We were spent. Mom’s lap was finally available for me, and I took my familiar spot. She put my fleece jacket on me. I felt my Dad join us on the recliner. Mom did not notice. It would be a while before she felt his presence. I would help her get there.