Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
—Dylan Thomas
The sight of her collar, worn shiny with age, sitting on my
bedside table instead of resting around her neck is physical proof of the
reality I can't accept.
Annie is gone.
My mind wrestles with this fact alongside how she died. We,
like so many others, had to make the decision to put her to sleep. This brought
up a whole new dimension of grief and pain that I did not experience when we
lost Owen just eight short months ago. Whereas Owen's death came about quickly
and rather surprisingly, Annie's was years in the making. She had numerous
health issues stemming from her inflammatory bowel disease. Age took its toll
on her hips, balance, hearing, eyesight, cognitive function and bladder (oh,
how it affected her bladder!). On paper, Annie was a geriatric mess. In life,
she was beautiful and perfect. At nearly 17, my German shepherd/Husky mix was a
canine phenom, living on an on and on.
So how can she now be gone? It is implausible. After almost
16 years together, the absence of Annie is felt like a missing limb, a
knocked-down wall, a leveled building. The feeling of something missing is
actually tangible. I hear her constantly in the house; the tweeting of the
birds sounds amazingly like the jingle of her dog tags as she loped through the
house, the kids dropping a book on the floor resonates through the hardwood as
did Annie's body when she would plunk down and sleep, the pile of blankets
under the table looks just like her body when peered at from the corner of my
eye.
I've never had a dog with me this long. In fact, I don't
know this family, this house or this marriage without her. Annie came first,
before every other single thing that shaped and defined my life for the past
decade and a half. And now not having her here has thrown everyone into a
misguided orbit.
It was in 1997. Wedding planning was underway with a fierce
determination. Only a few more months to go before I would marry this amazing,
selfless man I met jumping off the Matterhorn (true story. I'll share that one
later). Between picking out cake flavors and twirly white ribbon embossed with
our wedding date, P and I kept busy looking for a place to live. He worked in
one county, I worked at the far end of the neighboring county, so we needed a
middle ground. As a result, we wound up living with our parents so we could
save up the money it would take to find a decent home fitting our needs.
One humid August morning while house-sitting his folks'
place, P went out to get the paper. He called to me, and I looked out the front
door. There knelt my future husband, all 6'5" of him, with his arm around
this filthy, flea-infested dog with giant ears that stuck out on either side of
her head like handlebars. All I really saw was love. That moment, much like the
first time I saw both of my children, became etched in my brain, sharper than
any photograph and more vivid than any video. It's a permanent picture on my
soul. At that time, in that moment, I knew it. My life was changing.
We were responsible. We took her to the shelter (and she
literally sat down and had to be coaxed in. My heart broke and I sobbed even
harder) and waited for someone to claim her as a lost dog. When no one did, her
time ran up at the shelter. We had nowhere to live, no money, a crazy wedding
to plan. And yet, we didn't hesitate to get Annie out of the shelter and make
her ours.
For the next 16 years, she was constantly by our side. She
was just that: a constant. We got married—she was there. We bought a house—she
was there. We had a baby—she sat by me in the bathroom as I waited for the two
pink lines to appear on the stick, and she nuzzled me as my knees buckled under
the force of a contraction. We lost my dad—she licked away my tears. We had
another baby—she became his giant black toy. Annie was so much a part of us, we
didn't know an us without her.
In the early days, I would watch her gnawing on a rawhide or
prancing after birds, and feel amazement that someone did not want this dog,
someone left her on the streets to die. How in the world could anyone have
gotten rid of such a gift? She was my first rescue, and she cemented in me an
unending passion for rescuing dogs, and for singing the praises of these pups
anywhere and everywhere I could through my career as a writer.
Annie defied the odds and shattered the life expectancy
charts for larger dogs. I mean, she was literally 120 years old or more in
people years. I bragged about my ancient dog to anyone who would listen. It
became a goal, keeping her healthy and alive to the next birthday. Throughout
those years, Annie had many, many health episodes that convinced me the end was
near. But she always rallied. I just saw her as this medical marvel.
But slowly her age crept up to her. The arthritic hip gave
out. Her hearing disappeared. She became disoriented and would howl in fear at
times. And let's not even detail the severe urinary incontinence and
dementia-caused urination that destroyed my carpet and every area rug I owned.
(But what worked like a charm were disposable training pants, size 4T-5T with a
hole cut out for the tail, by the way.) The changes came about gradually enough
that we rolled with them, making them our new normal.
I knew the years were gaining on her. I just ignored them.
As long as Annie was pain-free, eating and drinking, she was fine. We no longer
went on hikes or walks due to her lack of mobility, we never left her alone for
more than five hours, we accepted the fact she didn't want to play anymore, we
fed her the only (crazy expensive) food her stomach could handle, we gave her
supplements and medications. Anything to get another healthy week, month or
year. And we did. Annie may not have done much more than eat, pee, get brushed
and sleep (and barrel her way into the pantry to eat the kids' snacks) toward
the end, but that was fine by me. Just having her around was enough. And she
was happy. Spoiled rotten, pampered and happy. The risk of keeping her too long
for selfish reasons was not lost on me. But I figured I could love her enough
to fuel her another year or more. After all, look how far she had come!
I wasn't ignorant to the signs of Annie growing very old. I
saw them all. But until she was in obvious pain, I didn't want to obsess about
losing her. When she hit bottom over Memorial Day Weekend, it amazed me how
something I feared and expected for years could still slap me across the face
when it finally arrived. Annie had another, what I thought, stomach issue.
Howling, pacing and anxious. Once she threw up and got her medicaiton, she
seemed better. Until the middle of the night. Then it was more pacing and
howling, demanding to be outside all night, pacing, pacing, pacing. Was she in
pain? Obviously uncomfortable, she refused to settle down for hours. Worry
eroded me and I had a feeling this time was different.
But the next morning, when she ate some corn and chicken, it
seemed we once again dodged the Grim Reaper. Annie was alert and not in obvious
pain, and drinking a ton of water. (Maybe too much water?) I relaxed and
scheduled her a checkup with the vet.
Hours later, plans changed. Annie began pacing through the
house, vomiting bile, refusing to eat or drink, howling, demanding to be outside.
I had not seen her urinate in hours. P and I tagged teamed the watch, but Annie
wanted to be left alone. At around 3:30 a.m. in what soon became the longest
night ever, Annie just looked at me with this expression of intense exhaustion,
confusion and utter desperation.
I saw that look before. With Owen.
I prayed for the sun to rise so we could get her to the vet.
I prayed that if her time was now, she would lay down on the carpet and just go
to sleep in peace. I feared she would do this outside and die alone, suffering
a horrid death without me by her side. I worried how I would have the strength
to be by her side. I worried I waited too late to make the decision to end her
suffering. I panicked thinking about how much she might be suffering. I fought
for years to never agree to euthanization so long as Annie lived happy and
pain-free, despite the dozens of age-related nuisances. And to be honest,
euthanasia scared the crap out of me. I had a bad experience with it a dozen or
more years ago, and I was unable to accept it unless my dogs were basically
comatose and two breaths away from going anyway.
But as I watched Annie pace the backyard in a labored style
of walking, I knew she would not go gently into that good night and I would be
forced to re-evaluate my fears in light of what was best for Annie, not me.
Dylan Thomas would have loved my dog. She fought and fought the dying of the
light, pacing and pacing, as if she feared the moment she rested her head, she
would be done.
As it turned out, that's exactly what happened.
We rushed her to the vet in the morning. My heart and soul
knew we would be taking her out of the house for the last time. Those
middle-of-the-night thoughts clarified what was up until now a theoretical
chat. Annie was in pain. No, she was not quite comatose. No, she was not yet
two breaths from death. But she was dying. And she needed me to help her.
Annie walked into the vet's office, struggling with each
step but on her own. She had lost another 7 pounds practically overnight,
clocking in at a mere 30 pounds. Years ago at her prime, she was 57 pounds. The
anxiety and pacing continued until the vet walked in and gently coaxed Annie
onto the floor.
And there I saw her just sigh and go limp. She did not make
a single attempt to move again. She was done. This was pretty comatose, my
husband said through tears. My heart shattered as I watched Annie lay as still
as death. The vet's hands gently moved over Annie's body, commenting on what we
all could see: Annie was dehydrated, exhausted, possessing absolutely no
muscle, in pain. Her body was consuming itself. Her kidneys most likely had
given out. That can be like a light switch, said the vet. The body can operate,
often times quite well, with just a sliver of kidney function. But once that is
extinguished, it's over and things progress rapidly and painfully.
"She is trying to tell you she is done," said the
vet. "We are looking at days."
As a journalist, I am trained to ask why, to pose the
difficult questions. My training didn't fail me. I peppered the vet with any
query I could think of—what else can we do? Will it work? How can this be
fixed? Is she really dying? Why? On and on I asked (some stupid, some obvious,
some insightful) questions, and the vet answered. I can't tell you how grateful
I am to her for being so honest, so kind and so gentle with us, and with Annie.
I don't know how many more ways or times I could ask the basic question: What
else can we do? Basically, we could choose to do bloodwork to confirm the vet's
suspicion that Annie's kidneys were gone, we could test to see how extensive
the internal damage might be, we could insert a feeding tube, start an IV, put
her in the ICU, hook her up to life support. Which may or may not extend her
life, and what kind of life would that be anyway?
"We have to think of quality," said the vet.
"And what Annie would want, not what we want."
"But maybe she just needs some fluids," I fought.
I suppose Dylan Thomas would like me, too. "Maybe she needs to rest from
walking around all night."
But why did she walk around all night? Why was she in need
of fluids? Why was she not peeing? Why was she losing weight by the minute and
vomiting bile? What was the underlying reason that caused all of this? It's not
like she just hiked 12 miles and fell to the ground, exhausted. Something
caused her to ceaselessly pace and pant, as if she was couldn't stand still
long enough to find comfort, as if she tried to outrun her pain, or the dying
light.
Resting on the floor of the exam room, Annie looked like she
was already gone. Her eyes unfocused, her body so emaciated she looked concave,
her fur dull and coming out in tufts. In my heart I knew she was ready, but
stayed for us. In her youth, Annie was nicknamed the Emotional Sponge. She
hated to see me unhappy or angry. Even if I raised my voice in an animated
recreation of some conversation I had earlier in the day, Annie would panic,
climb on my lap and lick my face until my attention laser-beamed on her. It got
so bad P and I could never argue in front of her for fear we would give her a
massive heart attack. But that was Annie. She needed to make everyone happy.
So why was it a surprise she put her own health and comfort
aside in order to be here for us? To do what would make us happy? I vaguely
remembered telling her to stay with me on Tuesday morning as she came back
around and began eating. I knew she tried so hard to do that, at any cost.
The vet counseled us on doing what was best for Annie to
help her cross over with dignity, in safety, without any pain or fear. A death
faced slowly from kidney failure or organ breakdown would be none of those
things, the vet assured us. I know no vet enjoys euthanizing a beloved pet;
this one gave me all my options for further treatment but said euthanasia is
what she recommends. My mind still bucked at the reality on the floor in front
of me. I willed Annie to get up and prance around the room, wagging that bushy
tail of hers and barking at the moon. But then I realized it had been years since
she'd done any of that.
I cried so much, my eyes swelled. For someone who has been
schooled to keep emotions in check, I unselfconsciously sobbed as I asked Annie
if she was ready. P teared up as he told me that's what she's doing right
now—telling us she is ready to go. Last night's episode was Annie begging for
us to help her, to fix this, said the vet. As loving guardians, that's our job.
It's the final gift we can give a dog that gave us so, so much over the years.
I never really believed any of that before this day. A small part of me still
wanted to rush Annie to the ICU and demand every life-sustaining measure
possible.
But the bigger part of me knew that at best, that would only
prolong the inevitable. Annie was dying and there wasn't a thing I could do to
stop it. All I could do was stop her suffering. I couldn't fix anything else.
We gave our consent to the vet, who cried and hugged us and
assured us we were doing what needed to be done, and what would best honor the
dog we loved beyond words. Annie's eyes met mine as she was carried in the back
to insert the catheter, and they seemed so confused, so blank. She never tried
to move. We all gathered around Annie when the tech returned her to the room,
putting our hands on her and surrounding her with love. Her eyes looked less
scared, more resolved then. Even my toddler felt the spirituality of the
moment, as he stood quietly by Annie's head, watching. I embraced her sweet
face, whispering constantly into her cherished ears. I love you, thank you, we
all love you, you are the best dog, we love you, we will be OK, it's OK to go,
we love you, we love you, we love you, we love you.
The procedure was shockingly quick and uneventful. Annie
tensed ever so slightly—so slightly I may have imagined it—as the fluid went
in, but that was it. Her breathing, shallow to begin with, just stopped. No
shudder, no sigh, no moan. Just there, and then not. I almost panicked as I
waited those unending seconds between the shot and her passing. I didn't know
if I was strong enough to feel and be witness to her last breath. But I knew
she needed me, and I needed to be there.
So I stayed.
And then she was gone.
I knew it even without the vet gently telling me Annie's
heart had officially stopped. With my head resting against Annie's, I felt her
rise above it. It didn't feel empty, but rather bigger, enveloping, rising. My
heart physically ached as I sobbed, feeling such pure white grief I didn't even
allow myself to feel when I lost family members before. Somehow, holding Annie
as she crossed the bridge opened me up and this flood of past, long-held grief
for all I have lost came out.
I thought I was the one giving Annie a last gift, helping
her die circled in safety and love. And yet it was she who gave to me. Again.
The tech cradled Annie in her arms before taking her away,
whispering to me "you did the right thing. Annie knows you love her."
Putting your dog to sleep is such a war of emotions. Yes, cerebrally you know
it's the right thing. In your heart, it's not so easy. You feel responsible.
But my fear of waiting too long and letting Annie die a pain-filled death that
I could have prevented overtook my fear of ushering in the end.
"You just helped her write the final page," said
the vet. The book was already done, and I just helped her tag "the
end" on it.
****
Back home, our third dog Ralphie, now an only dog, came up
to me, sniffed my pants and issued one, long, pitiful cry. I too wanted to
throw my head back and howl in grief. The loss felt deeper than I expected,
which was shocking considering I just lost Owen in September. I'm not ignorant
to the fact that this grief is connected to the unspent grief of other recent
losses. I get that. But I also get that the hole carved out of my heart was
bigger and deeper than I expected. I constantly look for Annie sprawled on the
floor (usually right in the way of foot traffic). The house feels haunted by
her presence. Her half-finished last meal is in the fridge, and her uneaten
pain pill is still nestled in a spoon of peanut butter on top of the microwave.
I can't throw them out. It's too final.
Now weakened by grief, I let guilt and doubt and fears
invade my mind. Did we make the right choice? Was it even a choice? Did we wait
too long and did she suffer? Should we have tried harder and given her a chance
to rebound yet again? Should we have let nature take its course? Did we give
up? Did I even listen to the vet telling me that Annie was dying?
In time, I know I will see this was the only way that book
could have ended. I will see Annie' s declining health with objective clarity,
not shaded by my own will to believe Annie was right as rain. I will see how
lovingly and beautifully we helped her get to the next level, with no pain and
no fear. I will see that she died with as much grace and heart as she had in
life. Until then, I will lick my wounds, feel the sadness stab me every time I
think I hear the tinkling of the tags on her collar, and miss that bossy old
girl with every cell in my being.
I knew dogs could become a part of the family, but I didn't
know how much they could become a part of me. I feel so lost now that this dog,
who was a part of us before there even was an us, is gone. Annie was my
once-in-a-lifetime dog. I even named my firstborn in her honor, that's how much
she meant to us. Annie opened up my world, helped me be a better parent, showed
me how to love unconditionally and, in the end, how to sit with my sadness.
People always said it was so nice of us to rescue her all
those years ago and provide her with this loving life. But we were the ones who
were rescued. While my faith has taken a beating these past few years, I hang
on the hope that Annie is whole, healed and young again, romping around lush
backyards chasing rabbits, playing with Owen and barking in joy (and at all of the annoying
younger pups she feels she must police). And I hang on desperately to the hope
that one day, I will see her again and have her jump up on my lap, shoving her
big furry face in mine and licking away the tears. But this time, they will be
tears of happiness.
Oh, my sweet Annie. How I love you.