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.

Sometimes okay feels really good

(Written last night)

Today has restored most of the faith and general good humor I seem to have lost -- probably in the laundry -- over the past several days.

It's been a rough week. I think getting over a bad cold is almost worse than the cold itself, at least for the mama of the child with the bad cold. At least for this mama. Last weekend I felt so awful for my little girl with her fever and cough and lethargy, hated the way she just wanted to lie on the couch with a blanket for a few days, hated the flushed cheeks and sad eyes. There was very little I could do beyond smoothing her hair back, kissing her, bringing her drinks and making sure she had her blankets and stuffed animals. She didn't want anything more of me -- didn't really want to snuggle, didn't want to read books or color or do anything. It's the getting better that's tough -- the point at which she's still coughing, still dripping, maybe still a little feverish, but totally stir-crazy. She's bored with her movies and bored with being inside. She's cranky and touchy and demanding. And she's three.

And then then the dog got sick -- her semiannual ear infection and UTI. At the same time! Which meant a very expensive trip to the vet. A small word of wisdom: When your day is already feeling a little shaky, don't ever, ever say, "Well, at least I haven't stepped in warm dog vomit in bare feet." Because while that might not actually happen, there's a good chance that the dog residing in your house -- the same dog who cost you three hundred dollars in vet bills last night -- might decide to start throwing up all over the dining room. Her medication is hard on her stomach.

I didn't kill her on the spot for a few reasons (although it must be noted that for a flash of an instant I was running on enough stress and adrenaline to briefly consider it):

1. We just spent three hundred dollars on her stupid ear infection and UTI, so it would be a colossal waste of money.
2. She was polite enough to throw up in the dining room, where we have hardwood floors.
2a. She was not polite enough to avoid Matt's shoes or the cheap throw rug from IKEA that we keep by the sliding glass doors, but I don't really care about the rug because I think it cost less than two dollars. This is why I buy like five of them whenever I go to IKEA. (Sidenote: Matt thinks I should wash them and reuse them. I think that if I'm going to do that, I should get to spend a lot more than two dollars on a rug, because while technically you can wash them, they come out all dingy and crusty and GROSS and they are less than TWO DOLLARS APIECE, so if I get a couple of months out of one I think that's GOOD ENOUGH. It's just not worth the effort to try to clean. We may or may not have had an argument about that this week, and that argument may or may not merit its own blog entry, purely for entertainment purposes.)
3. I didn't have enough time, energy, or arms.
4. I've grown rather attached to her over the past nine years. Sigh.

Anyway, the dog vomit itself would normally not ruffle me much. It's dog vomit on top of the three-year-old's tantrums, the baby's bizarre refusal to nap, the blessed naps that finally came and were interrupted by more tantrums, the vet bill, the FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY I did one morning because of all the peeing and vomiting and pooping and vomiting some more and spitting up and spilling, the three-year-old's refusal to nap, the three-year-old's cabin fever, and MY cabin fever. This all led to my collapsing in tears in the study yesterday afternoon, weeping (over instant messenger, if that's possible) to Matt that some days I really want to be a SAHM forever but I'm pretty sure I'm just not cut out for it. (And let's not even talk about how I'm not sure that's remotely true -- either that I want to be a full-time SAHM or that I can't do it, or that I can say I want to do anything "forever." I want to do a lot of things. But the stuff that tumbles out of my mouth or on to my keyboard when I'm feeling emotional and overwrought is full of hyperbole and extremes.)

There was also a shooting at my church on Wednesday night. It occurred shortly before the soup supper and Lenten services were scheduled to take place, two things I enjoy but did not attend this week (see above). I'm not going to write about that right now, because it really shouldn't be crammed into a blog entry about other things -- especially when my "problems" really pale in comparison to what this family is going through right now, not to mention the counselor who was with the woman when it happened. It is horrible and sad and still so raw that I think the entire community is still struggling to process it. I really want to say more, but I just don't have the words yet.

But things are okay, because they usually end up that way sooner or later. There is sunshine and crisp spring air. There is a blessed extra hour of sleep because my husband doesn't have to meet his carpool so early and he gets up with the baby, leaving me luxuriously alone in our bed for awhile. There is a trip to the Seattle Children's Museum with my babies and my sister-in-law. There is watching my daughter play and laugh and sing and make "microphones" out of tinker toys at the new exhibit. There is my baby boy in his mei tai carrier, sleeping against my chest with his chubby little fist curled against his mouth. There is the way he wakes up and beams at absolutely everyone, the way he lets out happy baby squeals for the rest of the day because he is learning how to really use his voice and just couldn't be more pleased with himself. There's "Mommy, I made this for you!" There are baths without tears and stories in Mommy and Daddy's bed, snuggled under the "big covers." There are stories all day long, every day, stories in which Daddy is a king and Suzannah and Mommy are princesses (although tonight I tried to be a queen and was quickly corrected. "No, we're both princesses," Suzannah insisted). Sometimes we all get to be monsters or frogs or bears, too, even Baby Isaac, but we're a family of crazy monsters or frogs or bears, so it's all okay.

Sometimes I think there's nothing else I could possibly ask God for in this lifetime -- I've got these two beautiful, amazing children and how wonderful is that? What else could I possibly need? Even if sometimes they do make me want to drink copious amounts of gin and eat too many cookies.

So today -- was really okay. Better than okay. And tomorrow I get a haircut and maybe some good coffee or a jog down at the boardwalk, so I suspect tomorrow will be pretty okay, too.

State of the Pug

All is not well in Blondie's world.

I don't write much about the pug here, which doesn't seem quite fair -- she was, after all, my first "baby." However, her last few days have really stunk, so I figure she deserves some air-time on the blog.

On Saturday, I noticed that her bulgy pug eyes were perhaps a little more boogery than usual. I resolved to keep an eye on it, as eye issues in pugs can become problematic quite quickly. By Sunday evening, her left eye had completely crusted over to the point where she couldn't really open it, and I knew we were in trouble. I suspected a corneal ulcer. She's had a couple of those in her seven years, and they haven't been too serious; the worst one required a few days of goopy eye ointment and an E-collar, one of those awful cone things that dogs have to wear to keep them from making injuries worse by biting or pawing or scratching. It's truly a pathetic sight on any animal, I think, but take a pug -- who can look as though you've run over their whole family when they're in a perfectly good mood -- and add one of those contraptions, and you've got I HAVE NO FRIENDS and I HAVEN'T EATEN IN DAYS and I AM ALL ALONE IN THE RAIN. I wasn't looking forward to that possibility.

We called the vet right away on Monday morning, and I took Blondie in after school. She was clearly miserable, with all sorts of crusty yellow goop around her eye (I was too afraid to look closely at the eye itself at that point), but let me tell you about my dog and the vet. She loves the vet, loves the vet with an undying adoration beyond all reason. The minute we scoot in the door she's all, "Look at me, look at me!" and the receptionists all coo at her and say, "THERE'S our Blondie! Look at her tail! She's so wiggly! Blondie! Blondie! There's a good girl!" She really struts her stuff all over the waiting room. And even though they do terrible things to her there -- they take her temperature in a rather uncomfortable place, for instance, and I always have them trim her nails, and for her, that is apparently just as bad as removing them would be -- she never stops throwing herself at people and licking and wiggling. We board her there whenever we take a trip that isn't dog-friendly, and when I go back to pick her up, the receptionists look at me glumly and say, "Oh. It's you." Then I have to wait while they march my pug through the clinic to say good-bye to every single vet, every single vet tech, and all the receptionists. And then they bring her back to me, wearing a bandana that they custom-made for her.

Anyway, she really loves the attention she gets at this place, and I trust them to take good care of her. So I tried not to panic when one of her vets (she has three, we love them all) peered at her eye and grimaced. The look on his face suggested that I should prepare myself to hear, "Sorry, but we're going to have to remove the eye." IT WAS THAT BAD.

Well, no, it wasn't that bad; Blondie isn't going to lose her eye (I hope). But it's pretty bad. She does indeed have a corneal ulcer, but it's a nasty one, right smack in the middle of her eye. It's visible even without the dye strip, like there really is just a big chunk torn out. It's horrifying. I have a pretty strong constitution when it comes to these things, I think, but I had a hard time looking at my dog's eye (and that green dye doesn't help. It made her eye all green and glowy and alien-like). I tried not to sob, "How did this happen? She's hardly outside, and she's never alone with the toddler, and the toddler is really gentle with her anyway..."

The vet said it probably was as simple as her running into something and reassured me that pugs can damage their eyes in a plain old room with walls and a door sometimes. First of all, they're not -- well, they're not the most graceful animals. Second of all, they have those really bulgy eyes (oh, how I love her huge brown eyes! HER POOR EYES!) and really slow blink reflexes. So when they run into something, or when they see something coming at them, they don't close their eyes in time. I couldn't think of anything Blondie could run into; when she's inside, she's normally lying in a heap in one of her beds, and she only moves quickly when I get her food dish (or when I make popcorn, which is her life's obsession). I suspect she injured her eye in the yard, either by wandering too close to the bush underneath our bedroom window, or by racing along the fence with the neighbor's dachsunds. She gets going so fast sometimes, and she's not looking straight ahead -- she's looking at those shrieky little dogs -- and I've seen her stumble and crash face-first into the fence when her momentum really gets going. (Ahem. I suppose now you're going to be tempted to make jokes about pugs and their FLAT FACES and how they ALWAYS LOOK LIKE THEY'VE CRASHED FACE-FIRST into something. Ha, ha.)

We were sent on our way with some goopy ointment, an E-collar, and orders to apply it every few hours. The vet thinks it will probably heal all right, hopefully with minimal scarring. Blondie gets E-collar breaks to drink water every few hours and to eat, and the rest of the time, she sits forlornly on the beanbag chair in the familiy room, the only place she can manage to get comfortable with this contraption on her head.

While we were there, I had her nails trimmed, because her day wasn't quite rotten enough. She struggled and thrashed and ended up bleeding pretty heavily from one toe (how she's never had one cut off is a miracle to me, and also the reason I will never, ever trim her nails myself). But she pranced into the hallway as cheerfully as ever, where she was promptly surrounded by people wearing scrubs telling her WHAT A GOOD LITTLE GIRL she was.