November 4, 2015
Sunlight poured in through the
crack in the curtains in Miles’s room this morning. Daylight savings time
depresses me at dusk, but thrills me at dawn. Morning people who love coffee
and sunrises are happier for earlier light. I just stared at him, all snuggled
up in the morning light. I couldn’t wake him, yet. I climbed under the covers with him and he
woke up slow. His long fingers snatched
out at the sunlight, and we spent a few morning minutes catching dust particles
in the sunlight like we were snatching secrets right out of the air. It was well past the time I usually wake him
for school, but I had news heavy on my heart, and I didn’t want to ruin his
day, just yet.
Miles is my deep, deep soul. Those eyelashes are long because they cover
over windows that stretch back for miles. You need tough security on a heart
like that. He feels things harder than
the other two, but he is gentle and kind. And there is something quiet and
trustworthy down deep inside of him that animals just cannot resist. Hence the tough news. The day had come.
Charlie wasn’t fit for this world anymore.
Yesterday was a beautiful warm fall
day, with wind and rain on the forecast for the weekend; it was a great day to
winterize. To dump pots, and haul dirt, and rake pine needles. I took all the flowerpots in the back of the
gator to the back of my horse barn, and while I worked, Charlie followed me
around as usual. Finding a warm place to
lay, underfoot usually, just wanting to be near me. Always in my shadow. I
don’t know how many times I’ve cursed and scolded that dog for laying right
down where I am working, but she never took offense. She’d move over a little,
and look at me, like “you know you love me.” While I was unloading flower pots,
she tried to follow me down to the horse barn. It was her last walk. That night
her gait was off, like she’d really hurt something. Her one remaining front leg
that hadn’t been crippled by arthritis couldn’t bear the weight anymore...not
that she weighed much lately. Dustin carried her to the bedroom for bed, and I
carried her out in the morning to pee, and I knew…this wasn’t a good life
anymore.
But I couldn’t tell Miles yet, and
rush him out the door to school with a hasty goodbye. So I did what any mother
would do, and emailed his teachers to say we’d be late. And we laid around and
petted her and gave our time and our back rubs. When I told Isaiah, I was
in tears, and he said, at ten years old, “Come
here mom, I want to hug you.” Isn’t that just like him? To be the
responsible adult in the household?
Miles just took the news in stride, quiet as usual, and immediately went to lay by her
side, and wouldn’t move until we made him.
After the kids went to school, the
vet came out and gave her two injections.
Those thirty minutes are not a block of time I want to remember. I hated it. Phrases keep chasing each other
around in my brain. “Barbituate
overdose.” And “tourniquet.” “She may
take an agonizing breath.” She didn’t, it was slow and peaceful, and
quiet. “You’d be surprised how many dogs
get a second wind on the day of their scheduled euthanasia.” Just one last burst of energy motivated by
fear or pain; just enough energy so that I could second-guess the decision or
battle regret. The visuals just stick
in my brain. The things I don’t want to
remember, but they are too fresh to file away yet.
A smarter person
would not talk about the details. They would try to put up secure walls around
those memories, walk away and forget. A more practical person would enjoy the
weekend with family and laugh about the good times. But my spirit says…write it
down. Don’t forget. Use it. Make it
count. Learn something and record it.
By the grace of
God, putting the family dog to sleep is the worst thing I’ve had to decide to
do. And it was completely Charlie’s time. She’d had a great life. By the grace of God, this grief is the worst
thing since my Grandpa died in 2009. By
the grace and protection of God, we have had nothing but favor and good things
pour into our life, like sweet sap from a spile. And I try to thank him, and not too feel guilty
that I cannot relate to my friends’ and families’ grief and tribulations. There
is no need to compare my sad to someone else’s.
They are just different cups to drink in different years. My time to
mourn the big things will come. I won’t be ready for those either, and they
will hit harder and hurt longer than this.
I keep
downplaying everything and feeling like a fool for the tears and all the
sad. But grace again arrives, and my
friend, my person, Maranda says – “This is a big thing that happened today.”
And I realize she is right. I need to
let myself mourn, and not worry about foolishness. I need to give myself the day off from downplaying the
sad, even if just for a sweet old arthritic black lab. I need to practice for
the bigger tidal waves that surely will come because death is a part of
life. And I need to show my kids that mourning
is nothing to be ashamed of.
So I’m writing
down what I learned. Dustin didn’t think
he wanted to be there for the euthanasia, but because Charlie had a burst of
energy on the first attempt, I called him and he came home immediately while
the vet went back to the clinic for a sedative.
So for the second time around, my husband and I were side by side. I wanted to carry it alone, so he wouldn’t
have to. I thought I’d be okay, I prefer
to grieve inside my own mind. When I
talk to others or share it, I cry like a baby, and then I feel like a
fool. But he came, and I couldn’t have
done it without him. And how fitting –
she was our first responsibility at 17 and 18 years old. Why did I think I
should do this alone when she had been with us from before “us” got
covenant-serious. Lesson learned - when
hard things happen, I want Dustin there with me. He is my family. Not my
foundation, but definitely a load-bearing wall I don’t ever want to be without.
The tough
thoughts – the weighty thoughts – are also the thoughts that flood me with
gratitude and remind me of my Sovereign, generous, providing, shepherding
Father God. Like how we’ve never been
married without Charlie before. We’ve
never been parents without Charlie before. We’ve never been a family without
Charlie before. She’s been in the house
or right outside, and frequently underfoot for every major portion of life that
Dustin and I have done together.
Unplanned pregnancy. Working
nights to pay for unplanned pregnancy.
Engagement. Fighting. Babies coming home from the hospital. She was always curious and protective from
the beginning. (By the third one, I
think she was thinking – really guys? We’re doing this again?) Newlyweds.
New parents. Sleepless
nights. Babies who pulled hair and ears,
and she never even got up or away from them; she just wanted to be in the
mix. For awhile when Isaiah was 2 or so,
and a bit of a ball-kicking cupboard slammer, she found safe haven under the
dining room table when she needed a break.
Even when we were buying 10 for $10 Hamburger Helper at Albertsons,
which we could only eat with free hamburger from my parents, we were still
buying her dog food.
Never bit a single person.
Never growled at a
child.
Never did
anything worse than running off and rolling in something foul.
Always came
home.
Always wagged her tail and was
mostly obedient, without much training from two busy, overwhelmed and
unmotivated kids.
She was never really our top
priority. She was always second (or
third or fourth) to a job, a second job, a college course load, a baby, a
toddler, the first day of school. She
never really enjoyed the life of dogs who belong to young twenty-somethings who
are better at birth control than we were; dogs that get loved like children. But
every time I needed a walk to just get away from it all and get out in the
quiet, she came too. Every time I sat on
the living room floor, she would do her weird wiggle-into-spooning-position for
some love and attention. And there was never a sweeter girl. And we loved her.
I’m
thankful to God for the companions we have in our animals. I’m thankful for
this Charlie season that’s over - the 12 years so far that my Father God has
never forgotten or forsaken us, and for the assurance that He never will. I’m especially thankful for the company we had
in Charlie for the years when many doubted we would make it as a family. In our family, she will always be considered
a cornerstone member.
Memorandum to self: Lean on your husband; he needs you too. Thank
God for all the places He has brought you out of, and all the things He brings
you through, and for His constant company and steady peace every day of your
life. Every time you invite the joy of a puppy into your life, you also invite some death and some grief, for yourself and for your family. And it's worth it. Love your kids and walk your dogs.
When they’re underfoot, pet their ears instead of cussing them out. You’ll miss
them when they’re gone.
