Picking up her food bowl, that was hard. I left it down for days. A week later, while shopping online, I was prompted for a password. For more than a decade I've used her name, or a version of it, to buy yoga pants, spices, books and music. I knew I couldn't break down each time I hit a "checkout" button, so I had to change my passwords, methodically erase her name. That was harder. My new passwords are neutral, nonsense words and meaningless numbers. I have three other dogs and I've learned my lesson.
When you adopt a pet – in this case, a twice-adopted and twice-returned Smooth Fox Terrier named Millie – she's suddenly yours, for better or worse, in a ceremony where you've paid a fee and slipped a circle of nylon around her neck. It's deceptively simple for such a commitment, all the implied promises. You don't think ahead to the day when you'll have choices, not just collar colors – red or purple? Life and death choices.
Choices: I said yes to the sedative that calmed her fearful shaking and made her little head drop to her paws. Yes to the injection of pink liquid that slowed her breathing and stopped her heart. When it was over I refused to let the kennel tech take her away, and he backed off, making calm down motions with his hands. I was utterly confused by the flood of grief. I'd expected to be relieved.
There have been a rash of books and movies, recently, featuring dogs. By and large the dogs are galumphing lugheads. Couch chewers, carpet piddlers, excessive droolers, rambunctious instruments of destruction, but pure of heart. You can forgive a lot if the eyes looking back at you are liquid with innocence or stupidity. You don't mind, as much, trails of shredded toilet paper, gutted pillows or a curled pile of shit, if you see frantic joy on your dog's face as you come through the door. He thought you were never coming home. And here you are!
Millie was nothing like that. She was a shrewd bitch, obstinate and surly, greedy and domineering. I have no doubt she was abused; dogs of a certain oppositional temperament are often bullied by owners attempting to show them who's boss. She telegraphed her experiences with a hunched, defensive back. The command "Come!" whether delivered cajolingly or assertively made her ears flatten. She couldn't accept an unsolicited hug. She snapped at my children, claimed their beds as her own and growled at the mildest rebuke. She darted out doors left ajar, and pretended not to recognize you when you caught up with her on the street. All of this was cleverly, adorably, disguised within a compact body covered in white fur and large Holstein spots, a rakish black eye mask; the only sign of her true nature was a nub of a tail that didn't so much wag as vibrate, like a snake's rattle. Meeting her for the first time, though, you'd be thoroughly duped.
I caught glimpses of the dog she might have been, in the moments when she was truly happy. She loved her leash and the walks it took her on. The car, windows down, her head out, ears flapping like racing flags. The dog park. Squirrels. In her younger years, she caught one, snatched him right off the side of a tree, and as my daughter squealed, "Drop it! Drop it!" Millie stood there, panic in her eyes. She wasn't sure, herself, what to do with the squirming critter in her mouth. Finally, she spat him onto the ground, where he lay stunned, spit-soaked, for a minute before darting up the nearest tree with one hell of a story to tell. And her food bowl. Even on the last day of her life, that morning, she did a little dance, a series of excited arthritic hops as I poured kibble into her bowl.
For us, she developed a tolerance, a mild affection, and there were times when she let her guard down and allowed us to show her kindness, but in those interactions eventually some invisible line would be crossed, a breached personal boundary that caused her wall of distrust to rise again and she'd effectively push us away.
I should tell you about the pet funeral home, a pale yellow bungalow decorated with chimes and fountains, angel statuary, crosses and wraithlike cats, owned by a woman from central casting: Earth Mother. A wizened tree of a woman, broad trunk, long gray hair that frizzed like Spanish moss, acorn-colored eyes, a healer's voice. Her words emerge gauze-wrapped, seeking untended wounds. These are details that would ordinarily make me smile or – at my most ungracious – snicker, but cradling Millie's body, my face splotched and puffy, my eyes red and scratchy with a mysterious grit, I'm buying all of it. If she'd offered Lazarus water, or donned a train conductor's hat and sold first class tickets on the Rainbow Bridge Express – Toot! Toot! All aboard! – I would have thrown money at her and climbed on. Anything to assuage the guilt. Those choices...
My husband has lost patience with me. I'm still weeping copiously and often nearly two weeks after her death. He says, "This needs to stop. For heaven's sake, she was old and sick! You did the right thing!"
Once someone notices your tears they speed up, and tears are raining as I admit, "I didn't love her, not like I should."
He scoffs and says, "She wanted for nothing! You loved her lots, as much as she deserved." That word -- deserved -- pierces me. Do any of us want to be loved as much as we deserve? Or do we hope others will see beyond and offer more?
I say, "I can't believe you think that's enough."
He says, "And I can't believe you expect more from yourself than that."
He's right. You can't fully love someone who willfully rejects it. I also know I'm right, and I can't hammer that contradictory knowledge into wisdom or practice. I just know that grief with recriminations is sharper than the well-earned kind.
I held her as she died. That's one of the promises you make in the beginning, before you understand the contract – that you'll be there at the end. I stroked her ears, and told her she was a good girl, over and over, and I meant it. At her most vulnerable, when she leaned against me with her full weight and accepted, at last, the loving embrace I'd always wanted to give her, she was a good girl.
(When I started the car to leave the funeral home, the CD player -- which had been off -- came to life, and this song began to play. Don't snicker, but I thought it might be a sign from Millie, that she's happy now.)
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Comments
Beautiful piece Bell, and I'm so sorry you lost Millie.
ah no....
I held her as she died. That's one of the promises you make in the beginning, before you understand the contract – that you'll be there at the end. "
------------------
I understand this too well; wishing you peace at this time, Belle.
♥
Wow.
It's been nearly two months since Dog 2 died, and I'm still a mess, despite having the seven previous months to come to terms with the fact I was losing her. Callie also had a history of abuse which made her not a perky charmer, and she submitted to hugs with stoicism, not pleasure. But after nine years, we'd come to rely on each other's presence. She followed me. I followed her. She was family. Dog 1 and I are bereft. I so understand what you're going through, and I'm sorry.
Praying for help in your grief, healing, and an eventual appreciation for all you meant to dear Millie.
Bless you for giving Millie a good home and happy moments.
Pamela -- I'm sorry for your loss, Pamela. When you open your heart to grieve, that opening is just as wide for beloved pets or for beloved people. And it is always a shock, though by now, with all the practice, it shouldn't be.
Miguela -- She was such a sport. I wish she had accepted it sooner.
Matt -- I'm sorry! I was planning on doing a food post this week, but this one kept impinging.
Kit and Tink -- Thank you!
Greenheron -- You're right, you have to just love the one you're with.
Jeanette -- I'm sure she would have give you a list of her grievances.
Mission -- Dead pet posts always open the flood gates for me too.
Fusun -- In my shelter work, I saw too many pets die surrounded by strangers and I promised my pets I wouldn't do that to them. But those images of their last moments are oh so hard to have.
Sweetfeet -- I keep thinking I could have done gooder.
Lamm -- Millie was really my first dog, and I knew nothing. My problems with her led me to devote a decade to pet welfare education, dog training and shelter volunteer work. Once you get it, you get it.
Jonathan -- Thank you for the blessing. I needed it.
Trig -- She was a one of a kind pup. I've yet to come across one quite as stubborn and as strange.
Joan -- When you write about missing your daughter, I do keep thinking that maybe you need a dog!
Susie -- Yes, he is so much better at compartmentalizing emotion and at perspective in times of high emotion. I know it will take time. I'm glad you found a new dog to love. You can't replace them, but a new dog does help you to heal.
Oryoki -- We are without cats for the first time in our marriage. Our last one had to be put down at the age of 21. I miss my kitties, and will have another (or two) one day.
Clay -- That was the most infuriating thing!! Her look of "I'm sorry I don't think we've met..." just as she ran off down the road. And she always did it right when we were headed somewhere, and we had to stop everything and chase her around. (I am assured peace will come to me....just not fast enough for my taste.)
Neil -- You sound like my husband. He "loves" our dogs, but not the way I do. Meanwhile, our chow Bowie ADORES him and follows him around as if he's a God.
Sophie -- I went into dog ownership with her without a clue, and she learned me right quick! I naively thought that dogs were pretty much interchangeable and all you had to do was pick one that was the size you wanted. Thankfully, I know better now.
Wendy -- It's not a grief you ever forget, or completely let go of, so I'm sorry for your loss as well. My husband is really supportive, he just has a more pragmatic viewpoint. She was in pain, and letting her go was the right choice, so there's no reason to feel guilty about it. I was THERE and gave the go-ahead. He's already promised to be THERE for the other dogs, should they need it.
Lea -- I did like to think of her as spirited rather than stubborn. Sometimes it's all in how you look at it.
Dianaani -- Those aren't feelings you forget, though I wish we could. I hate to think eight years into the future. By then, I'll likely have said goodbye to the three I have now. It's worth it though, to have them in my life.
Fernsy -- I understand about being afraid of loss. I have a friend who lost his Westie over twenty years ago and has refused to get another dog. He won't even LOOK at a dog and gets a sort of disinterested air when they come around.
Tai -- Thank you for reading. I'm glad the piece touched you.
Blue -- Two years isn't that long. Some days it must still feel fresh. The password thing seems to be common among pet owners.
Trilogy -- Thank you for thinking of me.
Stim -- As troublesome as she was she was a lot less trouble than my two-legged daughter! I'm sorry about your pretty princess. I can see her wearing a tiara.
Hugs -- I tried not to make it too mopey, and I'm not sure I succeeded. It's hard to reign in such feelings and show just enough.
Cominghome -- I love that quote. Whipping myself seems to be a pastime of mine.
Cranky -- I keep thinking I never "had" her, I just got to do the losing part. That sucks.
Betsy -- That's a sweet thing to say. Thank you.
l'Heure -- It would be interesting to see it from her viewpoint. I try to take comfort in knowing I did my best, and right now it's a small comfort.
Catherine -- I know you've experienced a lot of this. We do have another abused dog. Jeb is shy and fearful, but very very loving, so I think Millie was just destined to be very independent and that her early interactions made that evolve into distrust. I wish I could have broken through. In almost 12 years, I never did.
Scarlett -- You're right. When we are challenged and stretched, forced to invest, we do appreciate every little bit we get back.
Thoth -- It's good to see you around again, and thank you for stopping by. I do appreciate it.
(my poochie is almost 15)
I love the way you describe Millie, and that pic is too sweet...
This is beautiful, Bell
Twice-returned? The third time, with you, was the charm for Millie.
I know that commitment, to be there at the end. It's a killer, but there's nowhere else we would be, is there?
Oh, and this was beautifully written. Again.
this, that we discussed earlier
yes, perfect pain
(what a lovely photo, indeed, she would have duped me, too)
Caroline -- Millie was almost 15. I have another dog who is almost 14. I hate having to think about losing him as well, and I know it's coming. I have to think it's worth it, even knowing what's ahead. They give so much. (Even an uncooperative dog like Millie.)
Abra -- Thank you for the kind comment. The "dead pet post" can get maudlin, and I tried to avoid going there...but I fear I did, and couldn't help myself anyway.
Anna -- I so appreciate your thoughts and well-wishes.
Dirndl -- The funny thing is that I'm sure she thought she deserved better, or at least that was her attitude. It was almost comic sometimes, how she'd turn on the charm for strangers, as if hoping they'd take her away...
Maria -- I'm so sorry to hear about your mother's Tilly. As you point out, as difficult as it is to make these choices, it's much harder when you have no choices to relieve pain or suffering.
Myriad -- Don't feel bad. I just yelled at the remaining three this morning. STFU is a pretty common phrase around here. Luckily they don't know what it means; apparently, they think it means, come on over hear...closer...and bark in my face because I didn't hear you when you were all the way over there.
Pilgrim -- I do know I did my best; it still feels not good enough.
Vanessa -- She was a beauty in the shelter. Quiet and almost prissy in her cleanliness. Duped = me!
Lucy -- Thanks for the honorary EP! =) Everyone's comments and well-wishes mean a lot more than that, every time.
Gabby Fox -- Anyone who doesn't cry at dog movies is a robot. Or a person to be avoided! (My husband cried at the end of "Babe" and at the end of "The Incredible Journey." I've teased him about it -- of course, ammunition!!! -- but he knows I'd would have divorced him had I not seen tears.)
Algis -- Animals aren't hard to love. People, however...They're challenging!
Christine -- Thanks for validating my experience. It seems there are so few people who understand what it means to love a dog who just doesn't GET people. They need love too, as much, if not more than other dogs...but the act of giving it is distinctly unsatisfying.
Franish -- I always expected that she had a mate somewhere. Like my reply (above) to Christine, I think you understand the challenges we face when we choose to love pets who aren't really capable of giving it back. But, here I am a few weeks out, and I'd say I'd do it all over again.
Gabby -- We do have a growing pet cemetery. I look at my other elderly dog and cringe because I know what's coming. They are all rescues, and though I know that without my intervention they would have been gone -- killed -- years go, I just wish that knowledge made it easier when the end comes.
cry as much and as long as you want.
that song....... cry for happy
As for not having loved her enough? Or "as much as she deserved"? You did see past what she showed into her soul and loved her for all she was and was to you, Belle.
You are a wonderful, wonderful writer. And now one of my favs.
√√ MOC
Lilywaters -- I'm sorry you're going through some health issues. It's so tough to watch your dog -- or any pet -- begin to decline, especially if you've been through it before. Any little thing makes you go "uh oh!" and your heart catches. Hug your pup tightly. And yes, change your passwords!! I've learned that random passwords are best even if they are hard to remember.
Chrissie -- There are a lot of us who have loved deeply, and mourned just as deeply. I think that's a good thing.
Murder of Crows -- I always think it will get easier, because it SHOULD. Right? Nope. I know I did love her to best of my ability and that she loved me back to the best of her ability -- it was just an unsatisfying kind of love, and one you recognize as being deficient when you've experienced the fully-realized kind. It makes me sad for her more than for me.