Charlie Girl

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.