Soul Dog

It took a few seconds to realise I was utterly and completely lost. I felt as if my world was spinning, yet it was brought to an abrupt halt, the concept of time lost in its abyss of whys and what now. I sat down, feeling the hard plastic of the seat, and stared at the floor. It’s too soon. I’m not ready. The outline of the tiles seemed darker than usual, their stark contrast against the white seemed blinding in the dim lighting of the clinic. Weird.

The doctor’s words reverberated in my ears. It was as if I was listening to a broken recorder. The words were echoing against the inside of my skull, like it was an empty chamber, growing louder and louder. But I could not tune it out. Even though the words were blaring, I still could not hear them. A part of me simply refused to. In a way, it was as if my conscious wanted to make sure I felt lost in that moment and it wanted me to remember this pain etched into the crevices of my brain.

I looked up and saw the time. 9:10. I should go home. There was no point in staying here. The vet said my boy may or may not make it. There really was no guarantee which way he would go. The uncertainty killed me. I wanted an answer. I would stay vigil all night if the clinic policy did not mandate that it was not allowed. But I should go, I thought. I should gather strength if anything was to happen. At least my family was with me. We were coil in water. In the moment, we were.

03:30. We get a call. My soul dog, my best friend, he isn’t doing good. His heart isn’t able to compensate any longer. He’s desaturated. It was time. I feel myself shake the little sleep I had in my eyes out, before rushing to quickly change and leaving the house in a hurry. I had to make it in time to say my goodbyes to him or I would never forgive myself. Everything I felt the night before came rushing back to me ten-fold. It was devastating. My heart is pounding in my chest, even when I settle down. A void starts growing in me. I don’t notice it but with the ticking minutes, it gets noticeably bigger, knawing its way through my chest. It settles in the pit of my stomach and refuses to budge. Little did I know it would be there to stay, for a long time to come.

We get to the clinic. Bheema is laying on his tummy. He lifts his head slowly when he sees us walking towards him, but he barely has strength. There’s significant effort tolerance. Every breath in takes a significant toll on his body. I break down instantly. Hot tears run down my face. I truly feel lost now. A reality without him seems impossible. My brain cannot fathom it, yet I am forced to accept that it would soon be actuality; our actuality. I hug him and I feel his body. It doesn’t have its usual bulk. It’s gone. Just skin and bones. I sob harder, because the tactile sensation of losing him from right under my fingers was just too much to bear. What was I going to do without you, my love?

We spend a good forty-five minutes with Bheema, after he is wheeled into the consultation room. I get a good look at him. He is still my boy, yet he has aged. I see snippets of him, like a reel playing in my mind, from the four-months-old puppy I carried when I was a child, to the elderly dog laying in front of me now. All our memories together, our walks, snack times, nap times, play times, I see it all, and it knocks the air out of me. I realised I would never be ready to let him go. Rationally it’s impossible for him to live forever. But, it was wishful thinking. Every dog parent would have that thought cross their mind at least once. I see the age in his body, his eyes. Bheema takes a good long look at all of us, his beady eyes tracking our movements. He knows we are here with him, and to accompany him when he crosses over to the rainbow bridge. I could see, could feel the acceptance, that his time was nearing. Taking long, gasping breaths, he lays his head on the towel placed in front of him and relaxes into our arms. He was completely at peace. He laid his trust in us wholly when he came home with us all those years ago, and in his final journey, he once again had entrusted his life in our hands entirely.

He passed at 04:49. And he took a piece of me with him that day.

The day he passed was one of the hardest days of my life. The pain was excruciating. I laid in bed, clutching Bheema’s collar and his fur that was shaved and put in a small Ziplock pouch. When I cried or felt a part of my world crumbling in the past, I would go to him and lay with him, and feel his breathing to calm myself down. This time, the image of his last breath kept my mind full. My body refused to except that he was truly gone. I could not hear his panting, the pitter-patter of his paws, his tail wagging, the sound of him slurping water from his water bowl, anymore. There was nothing. Just, silence. The house was an empty shell, the light of life it once had extinguished in a single second.

I never knew how much I had centred my life around my fur baby until Bheema’s passing. He was always there, in every story, in every mould of everyone’s life. A constant, if you may. That anchor was now gone, with only grief and a sense of abandonment being its replacement. It completely shattered me to my core. I often find myself sitting in front of his picture and before long, I’m choking on my tears. I miss him. He had managed to access a part of me that was so deep that my experience of unconditional love was such a visceral and beautiful experience. It had changed me unreservedly. Learning how to live without him again has been a mixture of moments of quiet longings and mercurial emotions. They say grief comes in waves, and it is so very true. I am still very lost, but I am finding my way. I may never fully find it but I am alright with that too. That is the price I am willing to pay for the beautiful love a pure soul like my boy gave me, which I had the privilege of experiencing in this lifetime.