I remember them all. Each one a perfect companion that fit into the still uncompleted puzzle of my life. There will be others that come after them…others I will love just as hard and one day mourn just as much. Their rare capacity to unequivocally adore us will work to bridge together past and present memories, while building upon the landscape of my heart. Recently though, too many of those who came first have now left. And even though we were given years together, it still always seems unfair and way too soon.
When my sister called me to say that Stout was gone, I jumped into my car and drove to her house as fast as I could without getting pulled over. Even though I had an idea of the pain she was feeling, I knew that my previous situations had been different. I had been able to say goodbye to both of my dogs in the moment. In her case though, she had gone to work prepared for an in-home visit from the vet that evening, only to come back and find that her faithful girl had spared her. The decision to let her go was no longer on Maria’s shoulders, but it still broke her heart just the same.
When I got there, my sweet sister immediately asked me to go to Stout so that she wouldn’t be alone. As I sat in the backyard with the dog that had become an ever important part of our family over the past four years, I felt my resolve crumbling. I tried to look around and take in the view the way she might have every day leading up to that moment. I strained to listen to the sounds of her surroundings and to smell the summer air…perfumed with a delicious fragrance only recognizable to a dog. But, it was all too much. And so, since I knew there was no sense in holding back, I gently laid on her and sobbed…the tears cooling my face as I felt the sun’s fierce warmth on my back and outstretched arms.
It was my version of our goodbye.
A year ago tomorrow, it had been my dog’s turn, as I could no longer avoid the heartbreaking reality of Ditka’s situation. I had kept telling myself that he had more time. I didn’t want it to matter that the dementia had fully taken hold, or that he hadn’t been able to go up and down the stairs for months. At least he was eating. How could it matter that he no longer barked or noticed our other two dogs anymore? He still could be found in his familiar spots in the house. And it didn’t have to make a huge difference that his fur was dull and matting because he slept in the same position for most of the day. He still knew when I left the room. So, that had to mean something – right?
It actually meant everything, but not in the way I was trying to look at it. So, I’m ashamed to say that I clung to his small victories longer than I should have…thinking that if I loved him enough, I could at least keep him from aging any more. I could keep trying to make him comfortable. I could do my best to manage his pain.
The truth was that I did this really only because I was so afraid that when he left, I wouldn’t be able to manage mine.
My Bear was ready when the vet arrived. I had tried to hold him in my arms the hour before she got there, but it became obvious that it was doing more harm than good. So, I put him in his favorite dog bed and enveloped him in a soft blanket as we waited. And when it was over, I held him one last time…knowing that I would never, ever forget what it felt like.
You can’t forget something like that after doing it every day for 16 years.
Throughout the day, my people came to me. They hugged me, they cried with me, they picked me up off the floor when it was time to feed our other dogs and the absence of a third bowl was too much. But, most importantly, they let me talk about him as much as I wanted that day and all the days afterward.
Tomorrow will be no different.
It’s in these moments that we can’t stop reminiscing about each one of them…their personalities and quirks still fresh in our minds. “What are they doing now?” we like to think out loud. The day we said goodbye to Ditka, my husband started painting us a picture as we toasted in his memory. Lucky for us, he believed he actually knew.
For you see, they were all together too.
Someone once told me that when you die, all of the animals you ever loved will greet you at the entrance to Heaven. I have never been able to forget that visual, as it’s what helps me smile again when I find myself having a particularly hard day. The kind of day where I can’t help but look around and take in the silent spaces in the room where they should be…our beloved dogs, now permanent residents of another realm. A place that also might not be so different from where we currently live – as my lovely husband explained to us wistfully on that very sad afternoon. A good place…one whose stomping grounds are even familiar. Well, at least they are familiar to us. Because, as humans, it’s too hard to envision them somewhere our minds can’t firmly process.
As we sat around the kitchen table, Heath’s description of this cozy dog bar in the sky began to take shape. It is where our furry family members now recount their own versions about some of our most fabled stories. It is where they laugh about the things they used to silently watch us do, never letting on that they actually understood how impossibly foolish we could be. They sit together and reminisce…their friendships on Earth still present in this hypothetical hereafter, because it only makes sense that the bonds we had with them here would guide them to each other there. And, because they truly did love each one of us, we fervently hope to still be a part of their journey (whatever that might be).
I can see them all so clearly.
Tillie, Annie, Dino, Yoda, Ditka, Logan, Toby…and Stout.
We miss you dearly, as you were and always will be our family. I know that we humans aren’t as good at loving unconditionally, but that is how we truly feel about each one of you.
Take care of each other up there. Enjoy the view you so greatly earned. Be the good dogs we know you to be.
And please…
Don’t forget to save a seat at the bar for me.
Until we meet again my loves.
