D is for Dogs and Dying

I held her as she passed on. I made sure of it. I had heard that dogs smell stuff more than they see and hear. So I made sure that pulse point, my wrist, was right before her nostrils.

I am surprised that I even had a pulse still.

Because my heart was stopping.

Rarely can I say this, and, yes, as a writer I always have to say something, but this is the hardest thing I ever had to do. She had been suffering for months, really.

And that sentence causes an extra twinge in my heart when I typed that.

She was diagnosed with intermittent lameness this past summer, the victim of untreated Lyme disease. She had been bitten by a tick over the previous summer, on a road trip to Wisconsin, and since we didn’t know, it went untreated. Her legs stopped working. She started to just drag her fluffy butt around the house. This, strangely, did not alarm us too much.

Really, Pops? Another photo? Humans with babies don't take this many pict....oh, they do. 

She was living. She was barking. She had a new, younger pup of a sister and the two played and played, all the wonders of being a dog splattered out all over the house. She would occasionally feel her age with the legs bit. A baby aspirin would return her somewhat, but too excitable a moment, she would lose control of her tinkles. And then she would cry.

Cause she had an accident.

With me working as a special education teacher as I am. I slowly made the necessary adaptations needed for her to continue a life that was not like her sister’s. Floors were covered. Afternoon meetings were shifted to the morning so I could get home on time, so she didn’t have to hold her bladder too long. Slings were purchases to hold her hunches up a bit more so she could try to walk. We started to consider getting her a wheelie bit, but then we realized….she’s really, really old.

She not only couldn’t get up, she wasn’t particularly in the mood to do so. Sleeping became paramount. We’d shift her throughout the day. From the bed to the living room. To her food. Back to the bathroom, then to our bathroom so we could watch her. THen back.

No, really, I'm good, right here. Smoosh-face and all.

We lied to ourselves, saying it was because she wanted to see us. Okay, while not a total lie--we slowly realized, she was only living to make sure we wouldn’t be sad.

That’s a damn good friend.

We tracked her time. Before bed, we’d put a check if the day was ‘good’ or ‘bad’ for her and for us. And then the moments piled up. The bad started to outweigh the good. She couldn’t seem to stop urinating on herself and the tears, hers and my own piled up.

Here’s the thing, I’d put down family dogs before.

Why was this one so dang difficult.

It’s because I’m one half of a male couple. We could adopt, but we had elected not to. And the weight of that meant that our dogs took a certain, increased, importance. She didn’t deserve that much stress, honestly. She deserved to continue to be a dog until the day she passed.

But, also, as part of that composite that defined our wee family, she had the right to be loved up until the very end and know she was safe. And I was going to escort her across that bridge. I miss my grandparents. I know I’ll my parents. I’m curious to see if I’ll miss my brother, but that might be a different novel.

This, this was something I really had to have inner strength for.

If you’ve been following this blog, I went from a very religious man, to a non-religious man, to sorta religious. Agnosticism seems to play with my fancy. I know there’s more. I hope there’s more.

But not for me.

For her. She deserves huge cornfields where the popcorn falls freely, where pizza crusts can be stolen from magical plates, and you can poop anywhere you need to go. If you can even poop at all. In a way, this is the glory of world that is multi-faithful. I also understand, too, that dogs don’t need to have such petty things as a belief system. They just need to know where the next piece of string cheese is coming from-and that, is the true Glory. A faith so internalized that it doesn’t need to be stroked by ritual and worship, but, instead, it fulfilled by daily good deeds…

….and doggie biscuits.

So, in the end, I hope she’s found the heaven she deserves for being a damn good dog. I wish I can so be richly rewarded for being a damn good, what, person?

She accepted her fate with grace, the pain finally ending. No more accidents; no more internal struggle between being a good dog without accidents and the body deciding otherwise. No more worrying if you can’t reach your food bowl before the puppy snarks down your kibble.

It is said that pets can teach us so much. Dang, I wish it was just grammar and standard calculus. About the importance of life and how everything is temporary?

Who knew a canine would be able to do it with such depth before any philosopher?

One of the few images you'll see of the author...discussing kibble with his eldest corgi daughter.