Today was the day every pet owner dreads. It visited my home once again, and the results were predictable. Just like every other time in my life when I have extended the hand of mercy to a pet whose ailments had caused life's curtains to draw prematurely to a close, a horrible myriad of feelings has enveloped me.
First comes the grief. If you have never experienced this unique type of emotional agony, you are either not human or you don't love animals the way I do. I suppose either possibility is reasonable. And there's always a healthy slug of guilt to go along with the flood of regret that washes in afterward. Let's put all that all aside for the moment.
This remarkable dog's name was Crosby, though his ashes and his memory will carry his name until long after anyone is left who can recall him. He came to us in the summer of 2007 through an unlikely set of circumstances that are not particularly important. What matters is that he spent his last four years as a loving member of our family.
Sometime early this year, an energetic and otherwise very happy Crosby developed a breathing problem. The veterinarian told us it was likely caused by paralysis in his larynx. As the surgical option for a twelve-year-old dog had quite a number of risks, we opted for a much less invasive pill treatment. The medication cocktail had mixed results for a short time, but ultimately the disease progressed, leaving him with suffocating attacks far worse than those of asthma. As his larynx seized, his breathing became impossible, and the poor dog would panic.
At 1:20 this afternoon, the decision was made, and Crosby was loaded into the Jeep for his journey down the Green Mile. I prayed for an eleventh-hour miracle, but none came. I prayed that if there was to be no reprieve for him, that his passing would be sweet and blissful. I can only hope this is the way things went for him once he closed his eyes to the world around him. What was to be done would be final, irrevocable, and humane, and the product of much love and forethought.
At 2:05, the vet administered a sedative. Almost immediately, Crosby's breathing slowed and he began to dim. He continued to fade as the seconds ticked by and in just a few minutes, exhaled for the last time as he left this world, mercifully released from the aches and pains and struggles to breathe that had plagued him during his final months. Did we wait too long? Did we pull the trigger too early? Who can say really? Only God can judge these matters.
I hope he entered the equivalent of the heaven that awaits humans who put their hope and trust in God. If there is no heaven for our pets, at least there is no more suffering for certainly no dog is deserving of unending torment. In either case, Crosby is at rest now and has been set free from the earthly shell that bound him to his miseries.
Sleep well, my friend. I hope to see you again one day. Our time here went by much too quickly. Your unique personality and exuberant bark, your zest for life, the funny way you walked - all will dim in our minds with the passage of time, but you will never be forgotten. Please remember to say "hello" to all those who have gone before you. We love them just as much today as we did the day they departed, just as we have loved you...
It is now a little after 8:00 PM. The house seems especially empty tonight, strangely quiet even though other dogs live here. Crosby left a half-eaten bone, one of those Rawhides that would take a Skilsaw a week to cut through; his bright blue rubber ball, now ignored, lies on the floor in the living room; and his food bowl remains tucked away in a cabinet, unused tonight for the first time in years. The other dogs - even one of the horses - seem to know something is not right. Are they reading my mind, or do they have some sort of dual existence which allows them to peer into the Great Beyond?
The items left behind by the death of my dog bear an eerie resemblance to that awful morning when my father passed away. I remember looking into his clothes closet at many things: shirts and pants that would never again be worn; pairs of shoes, some too new to throw out, others too worn to donate to the needy; personal effects belonging to a man who was no longer a part of this universe and who could not ever use them again. Yet there they were, like fallen autumn leaves collecting in a rain gutter, useless yet not without purpose, at least at some point in time.
Twenty years later, I spent a couple of days poring over my mom's things after she had died. There was that same hollow feeling, the haunting memory left by a departed parent who had left all her earthly possessions behind. The big difference here was that my mother left far more than my father had -- she left it ALL, including most of the furniture I had grown up with. Then, in a flash, everything she owned had been reduced to an unclaimed jumble.
Love is love, whether human or canine; life is a gift, an amazing journey; and death, though it is the completion of life, does not mean that love ceases, not at all. Possessions remain stubbornly tethered, even though there is no one left to possess them. It feels strange to simply throw away perfectly good items that Crosby would want, but without a portal to stuff them through to wherever he is, they lie here pointlessly, disconnected from the one who had once called them his. I guess I haven't yet decided what to do with them, the wound is still too raw. When I do, perhaps this will mark the beginning of the closure I need after losing someone who was my dog and my friend.
