I just miss her

“Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”
― Roger A. Caras

The kids and I came through the back door this afternoon, balancing the mail and library books and the box of pottery from Suzannah’s birthday party that was finally ready to pick up after all the pieces had been glazed. Right away I was bracing my leg against the doorway to keep the pug from scooting into the garage. Right away I was planning to dump everything on the counter so I could grab her dish and fill it with her dinner (and sneaky thyroid medication). It was nearly five o’clock, and she usually starts barking her reminder at about 4:56.

Except that she wasn’t there. She’s not here.

I cannot get used to this.

It’s been 48 hours now. Two days. For two days, I have been someone who does not have a dog. I don’t know how to be this person.

Mine is not an unusual story; it’s just the story that virtually all of us who are lucky enough to love a dog in our lifetime share. It is the right and natural order of things. Dogs are not our children, not really; when we let them into our lives, it is with the understanding that we will outlive them. We understand that it will be our duty, our responsibility, and, yes, our privilege, to help them out of this life with dignity and compassion and love. But this week I realized that my basic understanding of that concept could not prepare me for the sadness I would feel when the time came.

Two years ago, our pug stopped eating. She moved uncomfortably, and her breathing changed overnight. She was nearly thirteen, which is right around the average lifespan for a pug. Matt took her to the vet and spent several hours there while I took our daughter to her second grade orientation. There were some spots on Blondie’s lungs. There was blood work. X-rays. I cried a lot. I thought I should be prepared to say good-bye to her; she was old, after all, and she couldn’t see very well or hear very well. (Then again, when she could hear she didn’t listen anyway. I never really thought her diminished hearing diminished her joy in being a dog.) Matt and I talked about how much we could realistically do for an old dog who may or may not have cancer. I pulled her on to my lap and told her I loved her.

And then it turned out that her problems were a.) a giant gas bubble (typical pug!) and b.) pneumonia. Antibiotics and some special canned food took care of it all pretty quickly, and within a couple of days her appetite had returned and she was back to her old self, plunking her butt down the middle of the kitchen floor at 4:56 every afternoon and barking pointedly until her food dish was filled.

She gifted us with nearly two more years. She slept more and walked slowly, but she knew her way around our house, she knew every inch of our backyard, she barked for her breakfast and she barked for her dinner, and every Sunday afternoon when I curled up on our living room couch for a nap she insisted on sleeping with me, tucked right in behind my butt. She hasn’t been able to jump up on the couch for quite some time, but even though she couldn't see well she knew I was there, and she’d sit there and paw crankily at the side of the sofa until I lifted her up. She’d shove her face into the quilt, grunt in my ear, give my hand a lick, turn around a few times, and settle in for as long as I wanted to stay there.

But in the last few weeks, things changed. She stopped woofing at the door when she needed to go outside; Matt and I guessed and just carried her to the backyard a few times a day. In fact, she seemed not to know where the door was. She walked straight into walls. She hasn’t been able to see much of anything in a very long time, but she knew our little house -- she knew where to go. She knew our yard, too, and never had any trouble making it back to the door after taking care of business, but suddenly she’d find herself stuck underneath our patio furniture, seemingly unable to understand how to extricate herself from the maze of table legs.

She slept all the time. She’s always loved to sleep, but really -- all the time. She stopped waking us up too early on weekends. For the first time in fourteen years, she was still soundly asleep when we rose for the day.

The other day, I thought, I’m not sure she’ll make it through the summer. And I thought I was prepared. But summer is still an entire season, and there is room to put that thought securely away.

But the last few days found her eating slowly. She didn’t refuse her food, but it took her a long time to finish. Unless she was quite ill, our dog finished her food within thirty seconds. She moved even more slowly. She didn’t want to get out of bed. When she did, she paced restlessly. She didn’t seem to understand where she was. I picked her up and settled her in next to me on the couch and she couldn’t relax.

On Monday morning, she didn’t touch her breakfast. And I knew.

I called the vet. I said, “She’s not eating, and she’s not moving well. She just...doesn’t feel good.”

There was a long pause. “Oh, Blondie,” the receptionist sighed. They know her. They’ve known her for a long time.

I took her in. The two receptionists peeked over the counter. “Oh, Baby,” one of them said. Blondie didn’t perk up. Didn’t wag her tail. Her breathing had become labored. I’d had her in for a UTI only six weeks earlier, and even then my geriatric old dog worked her audience, flirting and wagging and begging for a snack. On Monday, she just slumped onto the floor. They ushered me into a room right away. They’d had one waiting since I called four hours earlier, I think.

Her vet came in and I told her about Blondie’s confusion, about her inability to find her way around in the house she’s known so intimately for years. About the fact that her big beautiful eyes seem to have stopped responding to the drops we’ve given her daily for so long. About her lethargy. And, finally, her refusal to eat.

“I think,” I said, my voice breaking, “she just no longer has any joy in being a dog.”

They said they would wait until Matt could leave work. The vet gave her a shot, a combination sedative and pain medication. “This should last her a couple of hours,” she said. “She’ll sleep, or just be really mellow.” The receptionists and vet techs filed into the room to say good-bye. They’ve loved her for a long, long time. I held it mostly together until one of them broke down in tears.

I took my dog home. She slept in her crate. She seemed comfortable. I sat nearby and cried.

Matt left work early. Blondie was my dog first, but she was his, too. When he moved out to Washington a few months after me, that first night, he walked into my little apartment and took one look at my goofy little pug puppy and burst out laughing. But he’s the one who’d scoop her up like a football and take her down our apartment stairs at five-thirty in the morning. I couldn’t have said good-bye to her without him there, too. We drove her back to the vet together.

It was blessedly quick and smooth. I held her in my arms, and Matt stroked her head. I told her she was a good girl. The injection worked fast: 30 to 60 seconds, we were told. She wouldn’t feel any pain.

My dog has slept in my arms so many times, but even in sleep, there was always a lively tension in her muscles. She was always tethered to this world. The needle went in, and she went down. She collapsed over my arm. She was breathing, and then not. I kept talking, telling her what a good girl she was and how much we loved her. I kissed her ears, watched my tears drip onto her fur. The vet listened.

“She’s gone,” she said quietly. She gave us a few minutes alone with her, and I gathered her limp body into my arms.

Five more minutes. What I wouldn’t give for five more minutes.

Two days later, I still think I hear her snuffling and snoring. Two days later, I look at the last picture I snapped of her there at the vet and can still feel her in my arms. The way her ears felt permanently sticky from the drops we had to give her. The way she’d snort in my ear. When I leave the house, I think about making sure she’s tucked into one of her beds. When I come home, the first thing I think is that I need to get her fed.

Her food is still in a tupperware under the kitchen sink. Today when I threw in a load of towels, I stepped on a piece of food she missed, the last time she ate. Sunday morning? Sunday evening? We washed her dishes on Monday night, after we came home without her. They’re still here, stacked on the counter. I’m so sad. Our home is filled with the delightful chaos of our children, and in the last several years Blondie has needed so little -- just her beds, really, and her dishes, and all of her meds lined up on our counter next to the cookbooks -- but our house feels. so. empty.

I do all right during the day, when I have plenty of distractions: meeting friends, taking the kids to the splash park, running errands, going to the library, cleaning the refrigerator. But at five o’clock, at Blondie’s dinnertime, I miss her so much I almost can’t breathe. That’s when I put on a movie for the kids so I can go indulge in a few minutes of hard crying and maybe a half-hour of intermittent weeping. Since becoming a mom I’ve joked that I haven’t been able to go to the bathroom by myself, but when someone nudges the door open it’s just as likely to be the dog as it is the children. I haven’t been able to sit on the couch without her insisting on joining me, and this was true right up until Sunday night. Her last night with us. I lifted her onto the couch next to me. The difference, on Sunday, was that she couldn’t relax, couldn’t settle in, and I knew. But knowing doesn’t help or make it easier. Planning doesn’t make it easier. Realistic expectations don’t make any of this easier, as much as I thought they would.

Matt and I keep saying, “Remember when?” Remember when she used to steal your socks and my underwear out of the laundry and race around with them. Remember when she crawled into your dad’s suitcase and took a nap. Remember when Suzannah was born and she was so upset she had to go on Valium for a few days. Remember when she used to steal Suzannah’s toys, remember when Suzannah used to steal her toys. Remember that awful smelly stuffed leopard and how she’d shove it against our legs when she wanted to play. Remember how she used to bark her face off when the neighbor’s cat was in the yard. Remember how we used to tease her when we said, “Where’s the kitty?” just because it made her go apeshit.

The last time I took a nap on our living room couch was not quite two weeks ago. Blondie wandered into the living room, knowing I was there even though she clearly couldn’t see me. She sat next to the couch, gave an impatient little woof, and I lifted her up. She curled up next to me, licked my hand, and settled in. We napped together for two solid hours.

I’m glad I didn’t know it was the last time.