My daughter said it best. He was the love of my life. Understandably, husband was working, kids had their own activities, I was the one left to walk, feed and care for our little beast. For 17 years he was my companion, my confidante, my unconditional love. He got me out walking each day, every day. He helped me consume my dinner plate; it is customary to cook 2 pieces of fish as he will surely eat one. He slept next to me, listened to me and yes, he talked back. He made me laugh and when I cried, he was there to dry the tears with his tiny pink tongue. I had great joy living with this dog. I would never be prepared to say goodbye.
Then, ready, or not, for either of us, the day came. And my focus changed from not having him leave to how will he leave. I would not have him in a sterile office that caused him anxiety and was filled with no familiar smells. No, it had to be at home. Surrounded by family and the love we have for him. Finding a vet available to do this at the last minute proved difficult until the phone rang, and a soft Spanish accent identified herself as Dr. Paty. She suggested she could help. “I’ll give him a little cocktail,” she said. I loved that term, rather than the word sedation. She continued, “then, we surround him with love and together, we send him to heaven for his next adventure”. I loved how she described euthanasia. It was more about departing this realm. She spoke my language. She got me. “How soon can you be here?” I asked. “I will be there in thirty minutes.”
Our daughter and her fiancé arrived, and the family sat with Tango as he received his cocktail. Dr. Paty suggested giving him a treat while she did this to distract him. I brought out a dog treat and she said to me, “Mama, that is the treat you want to give him today?” I giggled. He got a stick of cheese to eat, accompanied by a stick of pepperoni. We moved him to a fluffy bed the good doctor had made and laid him down. He cuddled into my leg and rested his head on it. He looked up into my eyes and I leaned over and whispered, “it’s ok. You’re going to go see Zane. You’re going to a place where you can run without your leash on and eat all the cheese puffs you want!” I rubbed his head softly. He was not afraid. He cuddled into me and rested.
When we all had said our goodbye’s, Dr. Paty gave him his final needle and started to listen to his heartbeat. I felt a murmur in my ear and turned to see whose hand was on my shoulder. There was no one there, and then my heart knew. Zane had arrived to take his beloved dog home. I nodded. Dr. Paty said, “he is gone now”. Our sweet man-dog, our precious little canine. His head still on my leg. His warm body still pressed against me.
Dr. Paty said, “I’ll now wrap him up like a burrito”. We chuckled at how fitting it was for him to be wrapped up like a favorite food. She placed the little burrito in my arms. It was like holding a baby, coddled in a warm sleeping bag. I squeezed him and brought him to the car to be transported to the funeral home.
The result of losing someone you love is the same, whether it is a human or a pet. A loved one is a loved one and grief is grief. As with any other massive loss, my heart broke, the tears have not stopped. Everything reminds me of him. I can hear his little toenails walking across the hardwood floor. I look at the clock and think it’s time for his walk. I start dinner and look down as if somehow, he will still be there waiting for a piece of food to fall into his mouth. I cannot remove his toys or his leash or his bowls. I can’t even clean the floor. I don’t want any proof of his existence to be removed. I am at a loss. A total and complete loss. My purpose seems bleak, my world seems dark and my heart screams for one more touch of his paw on my foot to say, “here I am mama. I am not gone.”
I have had years of practice dealing with grief and yet I find myself at ground zero. The pain is sharp and the loneliness of the journey large. I am trying to convince myself that comfort can be found in knowing that we did the right thing. And we did. I understand this loss is not the same as other losses. I understand that he was not going to get better. I understand that it was an old dog who had lived a great life. My brain gets all that. But my heart does not. My love for him was deep and thus, as we know, the grief will also be deep. The small, frail ray of hope that I will survive another loss is now the piece that I hold on to with each breath.
I read, if a dog is loved so deeply by its owner, then it will return to earth in human form as its reward for being a good dog. Tango will be back.
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