All Dogs Go to Heaven

I debated writing a blog post about this. I don't think I can find the right words or do the experience the justice it deserves. So I won't try. I'll just say these things.

Jack got tired. He was done. It was in his big, soulful brown eyes and in his heavy head and in the final few, weak thumps of his tail.

People told me from the beginning that he would tell us when he needed to go. I thought they were just saying that because it's one of those things you say, when you don't know what else to say. But they were right. We knew. There's no guilt.

No guilt, but plenty of heartache. It's strange that a dog who did little more than lie around licking his paws and looking mopey but sweet (until he wanted your lunch, or the empty paper towel roll, or a napkin, when his elephant ears would perk up and he'd watch you with that pleading look he'd perfected) could leave such a gigantic hole in his wake. 

But our house is quiet, unnatural. It's missing a vital and irreplaceable member.

I hope I live the rest of my life and never have to witness again my child's heart crack down the middle right before my eyes. If my grief was unbearable, his was unfathomable. Just bottomless. In a few words I tore away a part of his very soul, and there was nothing, nothing I could do to make it better. It was a mother's nightmare.

He couldn't stop saying goodbye. Once we'd gotten Jack tucked securely into the car, Steven and my father carrying him in a makeshift stretcher, Alex went back and back and back, his sweet heart rejecting the thought that it was his final look.

Jack was so calm on that last car ride. I think he knew, and that he was glad of it.

They had a room ready for us. They brought us Kleenex. He settled instantly on the pallet on the floor, and we knelt next to him and said all those things that needed to be said: I love you. I wish. I'm sorry. You'll always be. We'll never. THANK YOU.

I smoothed his silky ears and kissed his head (turkey) and listened as he breathed slowly, steadily, peacefully ... and then listened to the silence when he stopped. The doctor used her stethoscope and said "He's gone. Take all the time you need."

He looked like he was sleeping. The way I've seen him a million times over the past ten years. The way he hasn't been able to sleep for the past couple of months, his loud breathing and frequent sneezing fits precluding any real rest as he got progressively sicker. 

He was resting now, and it was awful and it was good.

We stood and watched him until they came to get us, and when I asked about payment they told us that everything had been taken care of. My amazing friend Leigh had come by earlier that day and paid for his cremation and ashes and euthanasia. Her text to me said "I did it because I am so so sorry and there's nothing else I can do. Don't mention it again. I love you." Later she brought us dinner, with beer for Steven, wine for me, and Coke (in a real glass bottle) for Alex. She barely said anything, just handed it to me, hugged me, and was gone. 

She may never know how much those things meant to me. How my eyes are welling up even now, thinking of those acts of love and friendship.

I'm also eternally grateful to my parents, who braved their own sadness to help us when we needed it most, who came when I panicked and pretended to be calmer than I could be that day, whose strength bolstered my own, which was all but depleted before the sun had even come up.

And to my friend Katie, always my emotional touchstone, who used her phenomenal photography skills a week before to (crop out the air conditioning unit he insisted on using as a backdrop and) capture some priceless images of my boy in his full glory, the way I will remember him always, bright and shining red coat, soft eyes outlined in black, a face that says, self-assuredly as no human has the right to be, "You know you love me. And if you have any doubts I will sniff your crotch until you relent and scratch me behind the ears."

It's quiet here without him. No one steals my napkins. His places are empty, the floors cold. I don't have to step over his giant furry body on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. No one licks my toes. It thundered last night and I didn't suddenly find myself with a big golden head shoved up under my arm. Charlie is sad but we're trying to help her through this. She lost a brother, after all, her constant companion since she left her mama and other siblings as a tiny little ball of fluff.

We want his ashes and are looking forward to getting them back. It feels like he'll be home then, and that will be a comfort.

Last night Steven and I shared a memory, a funny one of those many times Jack played the clown, and we laughed and didn't cry. I know that will happen more and more, and that one day the ache will fade and the good memories will override the pain the past few days have brought.

We'll heal. I guess the process has already begun. But we'll never forget.

We will always miss you, Jack. Thank you, again, for gracing us with your love, loyalty, patience, and quirks.

Now go play.