She’s been gone almost seven days.
I now live in the after; there was the eighteen years I had a dog, and now the after when I don’t. I’m heartbroken.
I want to do a proper memorial post for Sophie, something positive and celebratory, but I’m still dragging myself through this swap of the after.
I’m trying to focus on the many ways in which I am lucky: I had those eighteen years. Her health was excellent for most of them and we managed the months it was not. And she was ready–it was the right decision. Since I made the call and started counting down our last two weeks, she rapidly began to deteriorate in a way even I wasn’t expecting; by the time last Tuesday rolled around, she didn’t even want to get out of bed and we moved up the home vet visit by a few hours so she didn’t have to wait any longer. She knew, she was ready. She went peacefully surrounded by those who love her–even her two cats sat on either side of her and watched. It was a good life lived, a good death. I am lucky.
The final veterinary and cremation costs were well over $500, plus two weeks of all her favourite (fucking $4/can) foods and freshly cooked chicken that cost god knows how much total–I am lucky I didn’t have to even think about it, from generous donations sent my way by friends and family. There was no scrambling to figure things out, and I got to spend her last days without taking time from her to worry about work. I am lucky.
Not a single person suggested to me she was “just a dog” or that my grief was/is misplaced; I am lucky (that I am not in jail for having to kill anyone for saying something stupid like that).
I have so many someones who care about me to check in and help out, chief among them a someone who would cross timezones and spend a small fortune to fly here last minute, rent a car, and ensure I didn’t fall into the black hole of depression and be unable to climb out again. I am lucky.
I am lucky. I am grateful. But I am still so wounded it’s hard to breathe.
The apartment is quiet now in a way I tried to prepare for but couldn’t. My life is quiet in a way I couldn’t anticipate. Everything about my entire day has always been about her: I got up because she had a food/meds/pee schedule, I dressed because she had to go out, I knew I took my meds because I had them after I gave hers. These last few weeks, I only slept when she did.
I expected to feel guilt for the fact that I’d be relieved I can now sleep the entire night through without stumbling down the stairs with her in my arms for a pee break, that I can sleep in, that I don’t need to climb over baby gates (meant to keep her from the kitchen floor where she could slip), that I don’t need to scramble to figure out how I would pay for her hundreds in medication this month, that I can leave the apartment for more than four hours at a time and don’t have to schedule it around her bathroom breaks, that I don’t have that constant knot of anxiety in my gut worrying about something happening to her.
But I don’t. There is no guilt because there’s no relief. I would happily spend the rest of my life with those sacrifices if it meant she could be here forever. The only relief to be found is that she’s free from any pain or discomfort.
Her two cats know something happened. What they understand, I can’t say, but they’re somber. I’m glad they were there to witness, that I didn’t just leave with her and have her not come back, although I’ve still found Doombuggy crying inside the door when she hears me come up the stairs, and Mo sits and looks at me with some sort of knowing in her eyes.
Tomorrow I have to ease back into work, to keep up the cleaning Dina did while she was here, to keep breathing (with the chemical assistance) even when I want to stop. Another tool for my coping toolbox: to not forget how so many rallied around me during this, and to not let myself slip over the edge when Dina and others were so willing to sacrifice (and spend) to keep me standing. That the value I can’t see in myself could not only be glimpsed in Sophie’s eyes but the eyes of those around me–if I pay attention and look.
It was three years ago today that I was dealt such a crushing blow, it still steals my breath and my will to live–and if you’d told me three years ago today that I’d still be standing, I wouldn’t’ve believed you. I’m here, in no small part, because Sophie needed me. Now she doesn’t, and I have to find a way to be here for myself.
When she was a puppy, she was a holy terror. Smart and energetic with a terrible attention span, she was hard to train and constantly in trouble.
The year before I got her Disney’s Tarzan released, and that first summer with her, the theme music was still on heavy rotation. I used to walk around with her cuddled to my chest singing that song, because I knew she might be a brat, but I knew no matter what anyone thought or said, she’d always be in my heart.
That wasn’t entirely accurate, though–she was my heart. And now it’s gone.
Still, I am lucky I recognized how special she was, that we had that bond right away. I am grateful.
This played while she took her last breath.
Writer of urban fantasy, thrillers/mysteries, and horror.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you she wasn’t part of you and that you are crazy to grieve. They don’t know, they’re not you. Grief takes the time it takes. If I may make a suggestion. Why don’t you do what you do soon well and write a story with her in it as the heroine she obviously was! Perhaps a story that will help others with their loss of a beloved fur family member. You could even do one that helps children deal with the loss.
Years ago, when I had to give up my cat because my husband was sick, I cried for two weeks straight. I picked up The Cat Who books and it really helped me.
My thoughts go to you for strength and clarity and healing. She obviously gave a great deal of her self to you and I know you did the same for her.
Stay well. Lots of love to you.
I do have a story in progress related to the love for one’s dog, I just can’t write much in the fogginess of depression. Eventually there’ll be something with her in it, though.
I am so sorry for your loss. My dog Frida died nearly 7 months ago and I still cry over her. I cried over her today. Like you, I gave her the best death I could. During her passing, my housemate sang a special song that she had written for Frida and had sung it to her many times over the years. Frida was an Emotional Support dog and nobody talks about what happens to someone when their service/emotional support animal dies. This past winter has been so hard for me. Just to get time with dogs, I have been volunteering at the local Animal Shelter. It is both wonderful and sad. It is a good shelter, but it has been hard for me to connect with a dog and then have it go home with someone else. It is hard to connect with a dog, then mourn because they are so sick, they have to be euthanized. Tomorrow, I am adopting another dog. He is 7, so I will only get a few years with him, but he is a really good dog, and I love him so much. When I go into the dog kennels, there is a cacophony of barking, but when Brody (I don’t know if I am keeping that name) sees me, he stops barking. We have begun bonding already. I am so excited that this new chapter in my life is beginning. I won’t be lonely when Brody is with me. I just spent $100 that I could ill afford on food, treats. and toys for Brody so he will feel welcomed and loved. Since Frida died, I sometimes find that I have more money than I expected, She was expensive, her medications and vet bills cost me more than $300 a month. She was so worth every penny, though. Having a healthy active dog is going to take some getting used to, and the cats are going to be pissed! I can’t wait! I will never ever forget any of my dear furry companions, especially Frida, who was my first dog. Now, though, there is room in my heart for Brody. My heart is with you, I have been living through that grief and loss for months and I completely understand what you are going through. I will keep you and your four-legged family in my thoughts.
I remember your journey (from afar) with Frida well–she was diagnosed with Cushings a bit before Sophie was, and you were kind enough to share links to resources with me. Sophie also had canine cognitive dysfunction so the last several months, yes, she was about $300/month as well and I would not trade a penny of it since it kept her well and with me for so long.
I’m so glad you now have room in your heart for a new companion, and good on you for taking an older boy who would often be overlooked in favor of a puppy. I have enough cats to keep me company for a while and expect it’ll be a few years yet before I get another dog.
I have followed your journey with Sophie these past few years, have hoped and sent my thoughts out to the void (my version of praying) for you both. It is so hard when a beautiful journey comes to an end. Our furry friends are precious, all we can do is love them while we’ve got them. Frida lived years longer than I and her vet thought she would. she was tough and fought for life so many times. I learned a lot from her. In a way, she will always be with me, as Sophie will be with you.
During these past few months of doglessness, I have gotten a little closer to my cat, Harry Houdini. Since Frida died, he has finally had me to himself. He always had to compete for my attention with Frida the dog and Emma the cat, who both demanded a lot of attention. I think he has enjoyed being an “only child.” This morning, I apologized to him because he won’t have me to himself any more. He scratched me. In an hour I will go to pick up my new dog and nothing will be the same.
I chose Brody purely for his personality and disposition, because I need an emotional support dog for my depression. It is icing on the cake that he is my favorite breed. I am older and less healthy than when I got Frida, a younger cattle dog would probably be too much for me. They can be quite intense and need a lot of exercise. I went through the illness, aging, and dying process with Frida and although it was very hard, I know I can do it again. I won’t have as many years with Brody as I did with Frida, but one thing that Frida taught me was to live in the moment. I will love Brody every minute that I have him.
I am so glad that Dina was able to help you, she’s a treasure! She volunteers at the same Animal Shelter I do, it is nice that we both know her. I feel connected to you in a small way because of that. Be gentle with yourself for now, let the grief process flow unimpeded, but do what you have to to stay well. I will be thinking of you.