Goodbye baby

The call came while I was drafting an email to a client this afternoon.

I sat there, first disbelieving, shocked. Then in tears. I cried all the way home.

When I went out, Tesh didn't seem to know anything was wrong. She was happy to see me, her usual self. And Cajun just looked like he was sleeping, like so many other times when I've been out to see him. When I'd stroke his head, he'd wake up with a start, then scramble up, all doggy excitement, his eyes alert and intent, hoping for play. But when I rested my hands on his chest to check for a heartbeat, he didn't move. Not this time.

He was still his usual self this morning. He ate all his food, he played with Tesh, he ran around. If I had seen him this morning before I left for work, he would have been looking at me, with the same look he always has when he sees me. But I was late for work, and I didn't see him. And when Ti came out to give him water, she found him lying on his side, not breathing any more.

I like to think that he went gently and sweetly when he crossed the bridge from this world. He looked peaceful. When I worked at the clinic, there were so many dogs whose eyes we could not close after they died, and they stared, unseeing. But his were closed, as if in rest.

I sat there for a long while, just stroking his head. Tesh kept inviting me to play, and got frustrated when I wouldn't.

I had to wait until all my sisters came home, so they could say goodbye. Then The Boy and I took him for his last car ride.

It's ironic, but thanks to my time at the clinic, I knew the best way to move a dead body. I still have the towel I used when Zeph was sick and we had to take him to the vet. That, too, was his last trip ever. The irony was not lost on me.

We shifted him onto the towel, something incongruously cheerful, and shifted him out so that The Boy could cradle him in his arms. Even then, Cajun still just looked deeply asleep. When we put him in the car, the smell of death filled it.

All the way there, I couldn't help but think of all the things that he’d never do again, or never get the chance to. He’d never go to the beach again, something he loved. He'd never get a chance to go to the Park, or the chance to go back to the training grounds. He'd never sit in the living room with me. I'd never hear him bark at strangers. He'd never get his Kong. Or his Fish Fudge. And I thought too, of all the things I should have done, or could have done, but didn't. Like the walks I should have taken him on, never mind that he couldn't walk very far. Or the times I could have spent more time with him in play, never mind that this seemed to take the form of him guarding his ball jealously from Tesh, refusing to give it even though the look on his doggy face showed how much he wanted to play fetch too. I'll never hear that funny bark again. There are so many things.

I thought of the way he looked when I first saw him, in the cage with Tesh, when he was not yet mine. He kept getting pushed out of the way, and he was so small and so fuzzy. He got to be bigger than Tesh in the end. I can see him still at the training grounds, learning all the basic commands, having the trainer tell us that he would make such a good dog. I remember when we got the X-rays back for his hips, and the pain of learning that we had to deal with CHD all over again, and the fighting I had to do to keep him with us. I think of the way he looked when I went out to see them both, him and Tesh jostling for position, and how he usually ended up with his head on top of hers, a little doggy totem pole. It always made me laugh. He used to play with ice cubes, at first startled by the cold, then deciding he liked them. The way he ate his food in ten seconds flat. The way he'd run straight for the water when we took him to the beach, and the way he looked, paddling about in the waves. There was one time when a big ship went past, and he got knocked over and swept to shore by a big wave. He came out, looking offended, and refused to go back into the water again for the rest of the morning. But by the next week he had forgiven the ocean, and he was back, splashing around. He was such a water dog, and he'd insist on drinking any water he could find, failing which, he'd tip it our or dig it out of its container, then lie down in it. There are too many things to write about.

At the vet's, while I waited, Cajun was in the backseat. Some stupid Indian girl came and peered into the window. Most times I would have cut her dead. But I didn't have the energy today. She started talking to him, and when he didn't respond, she turned to me, and in one of the stupidest things I've ever heard in my life (and there have been many), she said, "It's an Alsatian, right? She's very ill, is it?"

I looked at her, and my face must have been a study in "you-are-stupid", but there was no force in my voice when I said, "He's dead."

To cap things off, she called over her family to look, and to tell them. In retrospect I suppose it would have been almost funny. And at any other time, I would have yelled at her, told her to fuck off and leave my goddamned dog alone. But I couldn’t. I just stood there because grief held me as hostage, and I couldn't do anything except weep. Remind me to find her and put her goddamned eyes out when I'm feeling better.

We put him in the cold room, and laid him to rest. I stroked his fur, and it still felt soft and alive beneath my hands. But I couldn't stand to say goodbye properly. I was leaving him there, in that cold distant room, and it hurt so much.

I wept so hard and so much. The Boy made me take something, some sort of anti-depressant. I smoked half a pack of cigarettes. It was too much. It was not only Cajun, but Zeph as well, who I will never, ever get over. And I mourned them both.

There were two things told to me that made me cry the hardest. The Other Cat's Buddy told me that even though I'd only had him for a year, he was loved more than most dogs in a lifetime. And The Boy, when I sat on my window ledge, smoking to stop from crying because we had to take him away, told me, "God seems to send you the ones who need the most care."

After Zeph died, I fought so hard not to have another dog. Because there was only Zeph. Then when we got these two, I had to fight again to keep him. And I’m glad I did. At least he died at home, where he was loved.

In some ways, it was easier than with Zeph. I think that maybe it was his time. And I think God took him back so there would be no more pain. At least like this, I didn't have to watch him get weaker, and wait for the day when he would no longer be able to stand, or when he would lie in misery, with pain in his eyes, begging for help. And have to make the worst decision any dog owner has to make, to put the pet you love to sleep. He wasn't sick when he died, even though his hips were bad. He was still a total pig about his food, he still loved to go on walks, he was still happy. In the end, I think his heart simply gave out. He went on a gorgeous day, when the butter-colored sunlight made everything warm and mellow, and a breeze ruffled his fur, and the birds gave music to the air. He went after a day of playing, and eating, and giving his favorite ball hell. Gently, and in peace.

It seems ironic that less than two weeks ago, I spoke about death, and the fact that it makes you hold the ones you love most closer. But hold them as you may, you can't stop what happens. And I didn't get to say my goodbyes. Except here.

Goodbye baby. Where you are, there is no more pain. Where you are, you'll run, free and wild as the wind. There will be cats and rabbits to chase, there will be so many Bowser balls and tennis balls, and they'll all be yours, there'll be other dogs to play with. There'll be steak and cheese and Greenies and doggy ice cream, and your claws will never need to be cut, your ears will never need to be cleaned, and there will be all the water bowls in the world to tip over and make a mess with. There's a sea where you can swim to your heart's content, there'll be warmth and sunshine and love, and anything you could ever want which I couldn't give.

You'll never be forgotten.