And another year passes
A year ago today, I had to put my first-born dogter to sleep, as she was suffering terribly from congestive heart failure, a disease that probably would’ve taken her in a matter of a few more days at most. Those days would’ve been brutal, filled with even more pain and suffering for her, as the ones leading up to them had increasingly been, and we just couldn’t do that to her. I miss her.
I lost her just 9 months after I lost A, and it seemed too cruel. I was distraught, and cried a lot in those last few days, knowing the end was nigh. I would lie on the floor with her and cry into her fur; she seemed not to notice, as breathing took all her energy and concentration. Her last night, after the vet had been called for the next day, I spent the night upside down on the bed so I could be near where she sat upright, trying to breathe. She couldn’t rest because lying down was too painful for her. Neither of us slept much that night, and I pet her all night. And I wonder if the trouble sleeping I’ve been having the last couple of nights is because of this milestone. I’ve been pretty emotional, too.
A lot of people would bash me for even mentioning the loss of a dog in the same breath as the loss of a true love, but given that they happened in close proximity for me, the comparison was inevitable. It WAS different, of course, but I don’t know how much of that was because she was a dog and how much of that was where I was at that time. I truly suspect it was more of the latter.
Grief wasn’t anything I was plunged into with her death, because I was already there. Grief had become a familiar companion, and I suppose there was some kind of bleak, black comfort to be had by not being surprised by the emotions of grief. I cried, but E raged. For me, it was more of the same.
I learned, watching her die slowly over 2 years, and holding her in my arms that windy April afternoon in the back yard until she ceased to breathe, that there was no deliverance from any fraction of pain for those who know the end is coming. It loomed and tormented me, only getting worse from the moment I called the vet to let him know it was time. I felt like I’d signed my child’s death warrant; I guess I had. For all the questioning I did, asking a taciturn universe why A was taken from me without any warning, I knew it was her last night alive, and it didn’t make it one iota easier. It was terrible.
She taught me that, as awful as A’s sudden death was, there was no reduction of the pain and sadness for those who had warning, settling that debate for me once and for all. Holding her as she died was horrible, and yet I would not have done otherwise. It would’ve been cowardly, to my mind, and I didn’t want my baby to be alone at such a moment; we do things out of love that we never would do out of choice. I whispered in her little furry ear the whole time that she would be okay now, that she wouldn’t hurt anymore, that mommy loved her, and that A would be waiting for her. It was the second hardest thing I’ve ever had to do; the first was to survive A’s death.
I still talk about her; she’s still my dog, as much as my others are. Her urn is on the fireplace hearth, and her picture sits on the little ofrenda with A’s picture. I touch both as I blow out the candle that burns for them each night. Mommy loves you, Baby. I hope you and A are keeping each other good company.