Love lost

Sensitive content warning: this story contains depictions of pet loss.

“He did it again.”

“Oh no, seriously?”

We begin to gather up the supplies to clean up the latest mess. It is becoming an unsettling routine. It is all too reminiscent of the beginning of our time together, when he was potty training. But now it is fifteen years later and the hope that he might one day stop has vanished. I look at him and see our memories encapsulated in his tiny, furry body.

I think again to the beginning, when we were young, all of us, and we knew nothing of caring for another living being. We barely knew how to take care of ourselves. But, taking on this responsibility changed us and gave us exciting glimpses of how we might be one day with our own, human, children. We would snuggle him in bed on lazy weekend mornings and talk about how lucky we were to have such a smart, adorable friend. We would concoct stories about his behavior, like how he would need to sweep the perimeter in order to ensure our safety. How when he would look out the second story window when we left, he was the lord of the manor. We would talk to each other in his voice, a voice specific to him only and we would laugh at our ridiculousness, at his made-up persona we would create.

It doesn’t make sense that you can just buy a living creature, something completely dependent on you, and somehow they become completely integral to your life. You change your routines to accommodate them, you set aside extra money for their expenses, and you plan specific outings with them in mind. He was always in the forefront of our minds. He still is, probably more so now than in those early days.

We finish cleaning up the mess, and look at his face, grayed with the passage of time. His teeth which have fallen out, and his skinny body which has failed him again and again. It doesn’t make sense that fifteen years have passed.

He was so cautious of our babies when we brought them home. The first one, he was curious and checked on her when she cried. He looked at me like, “aren’t you going to do something?” When I wouldn’t respond fast enough. He would sleep near her on the couch, he would let her play with his toys, which she favored over her own. One of her first words was his name. And she would laugh and laugh when he got the zoomies and ran circles around her. By the time we brought the second baby home, he knew the routine and wasn’t as intrigued by the crying creature who would also try to pull his tail. But he was still their protector. He loved all of the long walks we would take, and the trips to the park where he always became the leader of the pack.

Now, those babies are bigger now, less of an annoyance to him and are concerned over his behavior. He seems confused as soon as the sun goes down. He starts barking and won’t stop. He gets scared of household objects. And, he has continued to make messes on every carpet in our house. The whole family eyes him with caution and tries to remain hopeful that despite the things we see, he still has many more years with us.

“How are you doing?” I ask him, knowing I won’t get an answer and that when he sleeps now, he sleeps so deeply it is disturbing. But it is better than the coughing through the night. He hasn’t been able to sleep all night in weeks since the coughing started. The vet says what we already know, there is nothing else we could be doing. He is on all the meds, we are giving him the special food, we are loving him despite how different of a dog he is now than he was even a year ago. I pet his fur and smell the spot on his forehead that has smelled the same since he was a puppy. I immediately am transported to our first apartment with him, when he would steal any snack we had and we would laugh because we couldn’t believe how sneaky he had become. Reality snaps back in when I see his ribs showing through on his back.

“I think we need to talk to the vet about when to know it’s time.”

This is a well worn subject. We have already talked to the vet about this exact thing, but it feels better to have a professional say that we aren’t being selfish, and that we are making the right decision to let this beloved creature go.

We make an appointment, and the staff is so friendly but I can’t stop crying. How do I say goodbye to the first thing that showed me unconditional love? They ask us questions and they offer him a platter of “forbidden foods” and he for the first time in weeks, eats everything. He hasn’t wagged his tail in I don’t even know how long, but he looks like his old self in that moment. It makes us question if we are even doing the right thing, if this is all in haste. The vet shows his heart and how large it is, how it has only gotten worse and how his tiny body cannot keep up.

They say they are going to administer the medicine and it will make him limp, and it shouldn’t be too long after that. I can’t see the faces of the people in the room because everything is blurred by tears. His fur is soaked with them.

“I know this is hard,” the vet says as I hold his flaccid body, “but you have to do something for him.”

I nod, wanting to do literally anything for this dog who saved me so many times.

“You have to tell him it’s okay to let go. He is still holding on because he wants to stay for you. He needs to know you will be ok if he passes. He needs to know it’s alright to move on.”

“Ziggy, you have been the best dog and I can’t imagine life without you, but it’s okay to let go. I don’t want you to be in pain anymore, and I will remember you for the rest of my life.”

It is then that she nods and says that he has passed. It hurts to know that we had to decide to do it, because who are we to decide that it is the right time for something to die, especially this dog that is part of our family? We head to the car with his collar and leash, a piece of his fur stuck to it. It feels wrong, and we hate ourselves a little bit for choosing this impossible thing. How can something be alive and eating chocolate, and then the next moment be gone? We grapple with it on the drive home, with our own feelings and how to approach telling the children.

It doesn’t get easier as the days wear on, it just changes. We still expect to have to step around him when we get out of bed. We still have to contend with his blanket, and his toys. We tell stories about him, and we laugh at his big personality that was contained in his little body. We feel better knowing he was loved every minute he was with us. We know he felt the love, even in those last moments, and that is why he held on.

We see small dogs, and we think of him. We see the scratch marks on the door, and we are reminded of him. It will always hurt, but there is love there too.