Let sleeping dogs...
Tomorrow may be the defining moment of my life thus far. I am woefully ill-prepared to deal with what lies ahead, but I have to do it. I made a promise a long time ago that I would be at this place and time, and now it's here.
My really, really, really, really old dog has been diagnosed with a terminal illness which is sucking the life out of her body and feeding giant inoperable tumors. The last two months have been the worst, and moving to Kentucky was literally her death knell (not that Kentucky had anything to do with her being sick; it just coincided with the end of her life, that's all).
We've only been here for two months, in this strange, leafy-green place where people are generally really nice, and I have to send my 14-year-old friend on an adventure alone. I have no strength to deal with this; I feel like I'm just floating in space and the tether is about to snap. Real life suddenly seems unreal.
When the vet explained what was going on, I asked to bring her back in two days so I could spend some time with her. We left the exam room and I had to go to the desk and make a new appointment as I struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. I lost that battle when I was asked what procedure was being performed when I brought my dog back.
I barely choked out "euthanasia." I fought it, but tears came anyway. It was like a thousand daggers were jammed into my heart all at once, and I couldn't speak because my throat was closing. There was nothing I could do about handling that moment any better. People were standing around with their pets--puppies, cats...and I was dying inside.
I pray that I remain calm enough for her tomorrow.
Now I have less than twelve hours with her, and she's doing what she's usually done at night...just lay by me as I write.
I don't want our time together to end, but time marches on. With her passing, so ends an epic volume of my life. Right now, this very moment feels like the last few pages of a great story. The book will close tomorrow and I will have to redefine how I describe my life at home--and my life in general.
We ate a great dinner together tonight, one of her favorites: BBQ ribs finished off with a bite of chocolate cheesecake--not that chocolate would have any effect on her at this point. She loves the stuff.
She was one of the funniest, coolest dogs ever, a great hiker and camper. And a Standard Poodle to boot. She never had the "haircut," and she wasn't ever really a poodle in the sense that most people perceive the breed. She was just a big, furry moppet of a dog. She was, and will always be, incredible. She wasn't crazy about the cats, but she let them live with us, anyway. I thought that was so excellent of her.
Now we'll be parted for the rest of my life. I will never stop loving her. If there's a heaven I know she'll be there, even if I don't get in. I can handle unrequited love. In this case, I have good memories and some great photos to remind me that for many years my love was real, and it was returned by her.
UPDATE: She's gone. It hurts. I cry sporadically. I laugh sporadically remembering her. My heart is completely broken.
My husband and I stayed with her until the last breath, and then we stayed a little longer. I was strong enough to be with her as her life literally stopped, and how I did it I still don't know.
As we left the little room where she died, I looked back over my shoulder for one last look at her. I realized that she hadn't been really happy and really herself for a few years, and I knew that her spirit was finally free.
Within the first week of moving here, I dreamed I had to put her to sleep. Really. I'm not making this up, I did dream about this. In my dream, though, she didn't die. After the shot, she got up and was all playful and happy and started running around. Of course, that's not what happened yesterday. But, I'll take the memory of that dream mixed in with yesterday, and it feels a little better--not much, but it helps.
The house now seems really empty and really quiet. Really quiet.
And I'm crying again.