John Galsworthy writes, "Not the least hard thing to bear, when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own life."
My beloved dog Babe, over 91 dog years old, my house mate, comforter, collaborator, protector, traveler, and accomplice died all on her own in my arms today. She'd nearly stopped eating but could still move around. Her wheeze was loud and hard. There was no pain due to the expensive pills I gave her. The vet said, to my shock, "We’re aiming for a soft landing."
A nature lover, Babe often scans the hills and the trees with sophisticated binocular eyes, hunting for squirrels and birds, then unabashedly flops on her back twisting this way and that on the grass, playing hokey-pokey with the sky. When I laugh at that she fakes a yawn—embarrassed. Now she lies so still on the patio, barely drinking the water I inch toward her. “Aren’t you thirsty, honey?” I place her favorite foods near her nose, a fan around her head of soft boiled egg, Gerber’s Baby liver, dog cookie, avocado, a bite of watermelon. She resembles a chart of the five food groups on square red tile, nose pointing toward the cookie.
The night before, I hold her forehead to mine while blubbering selfish tears, “I can't do this. I have to be responsible for myself, the oldsters, the kids. I’m in charge of four checkbooks. I have to be responsible for everyone and everything all by myself. I can't do it anymore. It's too hard. You have to take responsibility for yourself.” And so she did.
She didn’t come upstairs for bed rather sleeping on the living room rug. I check on her at3 AM , cuddling her on the floor spoon-style but she inches away. This, from the one who barely lets me stretch on the floor before jogging. She'll flop down hugging my side, legs in the air until I reach out and stretch her legs too. When ready to go she'll stand, shake, then do Downward Facing Dog. She taught me about that. The first time I tried yoga I came home saying, “These people certainly are religious; they have this move called downward facing God” and I show her right on the kitchen floor while making a perfect upside down V with my body. She walks under me and looks up--it's Downward Facing Dog, dummy.
Early in the morning I come downstairs and she hasn't moved. “Oh no, no you didn't wait for me. You’ve done it all alone. I am so selfish to ask that of you. That's not what I intended.” But she knows better. She lifts her head struggling to get up as I run to open the back door. “Come on girl you can do it, maybe today's not the day after all.” She slowly lumbers out to the lawn just as the sprinklers go on. Still, she soldiers on around the corner to pee. But on the way back she staggers and nearly falls. She stops and stares at me, legs splayed for balance. “Oh wait, quick let me get your bed before you lie down on that hard tile all day. Stay”, I put my hand up. I run to get the bed and through sheer loyalty she waits, wavering on wobbly legs. When I run back out she crumbles down onto one haunch. I dive for her as she collapses into my arms softly conking her head on the tile.
She didn’t come upstairs for bed rather sleeping on the living room rug. I check on her at
Early in the morning I come downstairs and she hasn't moved. “Oh no, no you didn't wait for me. You’ve done it all alone. I am so selfish to ask that of you. That's not what I intended.” But she knows better. She lifts her head struggling to get up as I run to open the back door. “Come on girl you can do it, maybe today's not the day after all.” She slowly lumbers out to the lawn just as the sprinklers go on. Still, she soldiers on around the corner to pee. But on the way back she staggers and nearly falls. She stops and stares at me, legs splayed for balance. “Oh wait, quick let me get your bed before you lie down on that hard tile all day. Stay”, I put my hand up. I run to get the bed and through sheer loyalty she waits, wavering on wobbly legs. When I run back out she crumbles down onto one haunch. I dive for her as she collapses into my arms softly conking her head on the tile.
Then her loud wheezing stops. Staring straight ahead she takes a full minute of pure smooth breaths. I stroke her back, my wet cheeks buried in her furry neck, “Go in peace Babe. Go with Greg. I will be OK. I’ll find you later."
I take off her collar, hold her close then let her go, reciting a favorite passage from Isaiah. "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”
