It’s a golden autumn day. Gracie, my 12-year old golden retriever, lies on the tile floor in a sunbeam. Her face is silvery white, her elbows bare. She doesn’t get up much anymore – her heart is willing, but her body betrays her. I smile. She dreams, giving chase. Her little barks and twitching feet tell me she is half her age, bounding through the long grass, burrs clinging to her fur, her nose following a scent, leading her onward.
So many moments shared. I held her when thunder roared. She comforted me through the hard times at work and failed relationships. We sleep deeply, back-to-back, our snores confirming our mutual trust and abandon.
My neighbours, Taylor and Julia, became dear friends the day we adopted puppies from the same litter. I named the gentle, fluffy female who fell asleep on my lap, Gracie. A mischievous male pup chose Julia. Taylor named him Beau. The pups were inseparable, and our households became intertwined. We agreed on a wholistic approach to raising them. We talked for hours over our fences about food, poop, and their training achievements, just like any new parents. I relied on them for dog sitting duties over business trips or to take care of walkies when I ran late at the office.
A memory flashes of a legendary Thanksgiving we shared. Beau and Gracie were left alone at my place while we helped at the food bank for a few hours. The turkey was thawing in the sink, pumpkin pie cooling on the counter, the ingredients for dinner ready to be assembled. We returned full of love and gratitude. Walking in, I thought I’d been robbed. We nearly called the police until Taylor discovered the dogs lying beached in the front room, farting and moaning. They ate everything: the turkey, the stuffing, the pumpkin pie, the Styrofoam packaging and the plastic wrap. Paw prints on the kitchen counter; debris scattered everywhere. We were annoyed but also worried as we listened to the loud gurgles coming from their bellies. True to form, after a fit of excited barking, Beau barfed up his stolen booty on the hall carpet. Gracie, not to be outdone, had rancid diarrhea for days. From the looks of their gassy discomfort, it was fair punishment.
Beau began to limp the day after he turned nine. The X-ray showed cancer in his hind leg. Julia and Taylor did everything to save him. After the amputation, Beau became a three-legged pirate, mooching and stealing food more than ever. Then came the chemotherapy. After all of our theoretical conversations about what we’d do, or not do, they chose to proceed. I objected, but he was not mine. He got so sick. I couldn’t stand it.
After dog-sitting Beau one day, I said to Julia, “You know, he threw up again. I mean, I don’t mind, I just wonder what the chemo is doing to him. To his quality of life. I know it’s hard but don’t you wonder?”
“Wonder?” Julia snapped. “I wonder all the time! I wonder if we’re hurting him. I wonder if he’s in pain. I don’t fucking sleep anymore. Every time he moves I wake up. We’re doing everything we can.”
“Of course, I just thought you said you didn’t want to do anything so invasive.”
“Well it’s fucking different now isn’t it. We love him.” She crumpled on the floor next to Beau, her arms around his neck. He whimpered as he licked her face.
“He’s in so much pain, Julia. Doesn’t this just make it worse?” I asked with some measure of pity in my voice.
“Fuck you. Get out!”
Gracie and I didn’t go back. I couldn’t watch Beau deteriorate nor could I accept their decision. Not long after, Beau stopped eating. I heard from dog park friends he’d passed. Gracie never saw him again, though she sniffed through the fence looking for him. He’d lasted nine months. Julia and Taylor moved away after that. Bigger house, Julia was expecting. It made sense. That was three years ago.
Gracie puts her warm, silver muzzle of velvet in my hand. My phone dings to remind me of the appointment. What to do in half an hour when your world will be forever changed? How to bottle these final minutes?
As I pick up her leash, Gracie musters a thump, thump of her tail. I help her stand, towel wrapped under her belly to lift her up. She’s lighter now. The cancer has made her appetite poor and her guts unable to absorb the food. I almost collapsed when the vet showed me the scan and the lump on her spleen three months ago. Surgery was not an option. Gracie might not last long without aggressive treatment. The vet offered to make a referral to an oncologist friend. I couldn’t. I couldn’t torture her with the treatments. I tortured myself instead with desperate attempts to get her to eat, to extend her life.
The ride in the car is windows down, of course. Gracie seems to close her eyes. I believe she feels joy, transported to her younger days when her pain wasn’t there. Joy. I know that’s a human emotion. Gracie taught me everything about living in the moment, forgiveness – even when I left her for too many hours, she greeted me with boundless gratitude. All was forgiven.
My red-rimmed eyes meet the receptionist’s at the chaotic veterinary office. We are immediately led into an examination room that has been transformed into a place of warmth and comfort for both the human and the patient. While Gracie wants to make the rounds of the waiting room, sniffing, saying her hellos to the bouncing dogs and snarling cats, she doesn’t have the strength. Everything goes quiet the moment the door closes.
The vet tech helps me lift Gracie up and lay her on the small, handmade quilt they’ve placed on the cold examination table. She licks my tears. She whimpers a little, maybe from discomfort, maybe from fear. Memories of shots and examinations, the disinfectant unpleasant for her sensitive nose. Balls of tissue build in my pockets. I detect the vet’s voice catch as she explains the procedure. I recognize that she too has followed Gracie’s life through our visits from puppy through adulthood to this moment.
“I feel like I didn’t do enough.”
“We did everything.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“You did your best. She knows you did. She knows.”
“I love you, Gracie. I’m so sorry baby girl. I love you.” I rest my forehead against hers. She sighs a little. I close my eyes and nod my head.
Gracie flinches at the needle. I kiss her one last time. Her too brief life flashes through me. The gratitude I feel for her gifts of love and laughter. The moment is profoundly, achingly beautiful. Her pain gone, her fight over. I’m invited to stay as long as I want. We are alone together, just our souls. I let her go.
Julia had showed up at my door unexpected. Word had gotten to her through friends at the dog park that Gracie was sick. We sat on the front porch for over an hour, talking, laughing, crying, reminiscing. The disagreement between us gone. An intimate understanding of the lengths we’ll go to for a loved one.
She’s at the vet’s office now to drive me home. I am not fit to drive. I melt into her as she hugs me. She helps me even though I was incapable of helping her. Taylor, meanwhile, is at my house putting away reminders. Her toys, beds, and bowls.
Walking into my silent house with no whimper of greeting, no tail thumping devastates me. I lie on the floor in her sunbeam. Giving thanks for the years of her love, I hope with all my heart that she is with her beloved Beau running through a field somewhere, her young, healthy self, catching a scent. Leading her onward.
Gracie
I cried reading this. Tears are still blurring my vision. My nose is running. I know your loss. I feel your ache. Our dogs are family. I’m sorry for your loss. Keep going.