Saying Goodbye

Everything takes on a special significance- this last day. My dog doesn’t know it’s her final walk down to the waterway, but I do. I let her set the pace- slow and unsteady- patiently waiting as she takes what seems like hours to sniff a particular spot along the fence. As I stand there, watching her dissect the molecules of scent, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The sun is warm. The water in the canal dank. I pull gently on her leash, and we continue on. How many times have we walked down this sidewalk, along this fence, across this street? Although her eyes have clouded over, I know she could navigate this route by smell alone, not even needing to see to know who has walked here before. The pair of pit bulls who lunge and snarl as we walk by. The small yorkie who is lucky to have a mom who lets him take all the time he needs to investigate all the smells. The Jack Russell who needs to be picked up and carried in the opposite direction if we should meet. The Weimaraner who is patient and friendly with an old dog who sniffs her all over.

Many times, I hear people say that if they had only known it was going to be the last time, they would have done things differently- paid more attention to the details, taken more time to do the things, been brave enough to say the words. But today, as I am careful not to waste any of the remaining time we have together, I realize that knowing when the end is coming does not make things easier. If anything, it makes things way, way harder.

After our walk, I put Rhode on the tether in the yard and we sit outside in the bright morning sun, as we’ve done hundreds of times before. I talk to her, reminiscing, saying the words, even though I know she is unable to hear my voice. I run my hands over her back, stopping to scratch the special spot above her tail, and am rewarded with a brief wag. She was never one to be overly demonstrative, so I resist the urge to throw my arms around her solid, warm body and hold her tight. To do so would cause her anxiety, so I try to convey my love through the small back scratches and rubs along her face.

Time passes, and the vet texts me to let me know she is on her way. Suddenly, we are out of time, and I become frantic with the knowledge; unable to do anything to stop the inevitable.

In the end, the transition from life to death is quiet and almost graceful. I murmur reassuring words and rub her neck as I feel her body become heavy against my leg, her head lowering gently to the floor under my hands. The vet leaves us alone while she packs up her things, and only now am I able to fully embrace my dog and sob into her warm fur. She is gone and my heart is breaking.

Sixteen years is a good, long life for a dog, and I don’t have any misgivings. I am absolutely certain it was her time, and the most loving thing I could do for her was to let her go.  A friend wrote to me a couple of days ago that death can be “something quite beautiful and akin to emancipation or even salvation.” He was absolutely right. But oh, it is such a hard thing.