I haven't had a lot of first-hand experience with death, so I don't feel at all qualified to write about it. Yesterday we lost our beloved family dog, and I know that losing a pet isn't anything like losing a person. Except, it is. And when something profound happens in my life, I write. So I will attempt to tackle my emotions through my typing fingertips and hope you'll forgive me if I make a mess of this post.
I was working as a reporter for a small newspaper called the Norman Transcript in the year 2000 -- my first job out of college. I covered education and social services, so when an event like a pet adoption fair that our paper helped sponsor came up and the "Living" section editor didn't feel like covering it, the eager new girl (that was me, by the way) got the assignment.
My Air Force husband and I had a house, a yard, and no children, and we both grew up with dogs, so we had already adopted one dog, an old collie mix who had been abandoned in an apartment and advertised in the paper as a puppy. The vet had declared him to be around 17 years old, so we named him Abraham and tried to give him a good home for his final years. I had no intentions of getting another dog when we went to that pet fair. I had written the articles promoting it and merely wanted to show up to say hello to some of the people I had interviewed and pet a few puppies.
My husband fell in love. There were these two puppies, one that looked more like a husky and one that looked more like a German Shepherd, and they were inseparable. They were the only two who had survived their whole litter being dumped off near a lake and had been found together the way we saw them -- practically lying on top of each other, legs all intertwined. I refused to take two more dogs, and I refused to separate them, so in my mind the matter was settled. We continued to walk around, but my husband kept going back to play with the black one and made comments on how big he was going to get based on the size of his paws and oversized, pointy ears.
When another Air Force guy came along and scooped up the other puppy, the separation of those two dogs was complete, and somehow my husband convinced me that we needed to swoop in and save the black puppy that I could already tell was going to shed profusely. So we did, and since we had old Abe waiting at home, I suggested we name him Isaac but call him Ike. I house trained him the way my mom had shown me to train the Lhaso Apso puppy I had picked out at the pet store when I was 10, and Abe trained him to be a little playful but gentle and quiet, the way old dogs are.
Ike was my first "baby." He traveled from Oklahoma to Florida with us, where Abe passed away in the backyard of our base housing unit one summer day after my mom and I had just met up in California to visit my brother's family. My husband found him after work, and I had to grieve from afar, wondering all the while how Ike was faring with the loss of his companion. Ike went through some tumultuous times with us and lived with a friend for a few months after my husband got out of the military and we traveled around the world and the country trying to figure out what God had for us next. When we landed back in Oklahoma for my husband to attend a technical college, I insisted that we drive down to Florida partly to visit friends but mainly to retrieve Ike. We were going to be living in a tiny apartment and both of us would be gone all day, but he was ours and the situation was temporary. When we moved out 18 months later, I was pregnant, and we were headed back to Florida for my husband's first job out of school.
When I brought my firstborn son home, Ike was there to greet him. We moved to North Carolina later that year. When I had my second son in my bathtub upstairs two years later, Ike paced and whined nervously and even made an appearance on the scene to see what was going on. When I had my third son in the same place, Ike was less nervous and seemed to understand. He always greeted the babies curiously and happily, even though each one meant we had a little less time and attention to give him. The boys loved him enough to more than make up the difference.
In fact, our boys have never known life without that gentle, hairy mutt. As I looked through pictures from the past couple of years trying to find some good ones of Ike, I realized he has seldom been in the center of the shot since the boys came along. Yet he has always been there, off to the side watching out for them while they played in the sandbox or napping nearby while they played on the floor. He is pictured in the corner of many photos, and it dawned on me that he belongs in the corner. He has been there so long -- in the corner of the living room on his bed ... in the corner of my Christmas morning photos as he eagerly waited for us to open his stocking and then investigated the boys' freshly opened presents ... in the corner of my heart as a faithful and trusted companion for the past 13 years.
I have known for a while that I needed to prepare myself for the end. Dogs his size just don't live much past the age he did normally. He had been healthy and happy for so long and had truly spoiled us. Almost everyone commented on what a good dog he was, except the occasional strangers who only came around long enough to get him worked up but not long enough to get to know him. Earlier this year one of my best friends lost her 13-year-old large dog, and I remember thinking I should be prepared for that to happen to me anytime. I prayed then that it would be quick and painless.
Yesterday morning I let him outside to do his business like always. He had a grooming appointment with my neighbor across the street who was so kind as to take him to work with her for his grooming (as well as for his last vet check-up), so I knew I couldn't let him wander too far from the house (as he was prone to do when he felt like taking a walk and no one was around to take him). I was about to get breakfast ready for the boys but wanted to run outside and put something in the car so I wouldn't forget to take it with me somewhere I was going later. When I turned around, I saw Ike trying to walk toward me. He was side-stepping, tongue hanging out of his mouth, and I knew he wasn't OK. I had my phone in my hand and was about to call my neighbor for advice, but when I looked up I saw her coming out of her house and waving at me in a friendly greeting. I waved her over in a panic, and when she saw Ike, she knew what I didn't: He was having a stroke.
I'm so thankful she was there to tell me what to do. I felt frozen to the spot. After Ike collapsed by a tree, I ran inside to find a blanket per her instructions. I covered him up, planted myself on the ground, and gently put his head in my lap. At first my neighbor had said I needed to take him to the vet around the corner, but when she saw his blue tongue and slowed breathing, she told me the end was coming soon. I held him for several minutes. The boys were finding their shoes and ran outside all disheveled and upset at what they saw. When they found out what was happening, they began crying, one at a time, until the sobs and wails of three little boys and their mom filled the air. I called my husband, who said he would leave work to come help, and then I took the boys inside to calm them down and try to get them to eat something. My oldest couldn't think of food any more than I could. He ran to the office, I supposed to have a good cry. Just as I had prayed, the end came quickly and painlessly. When I went back outside to check on Ike, he had passed.
I tried to remain calm for the boys but couldn't hold back the tears, and there was no use trying since they were bawling anyway. When my husband got home, I went to the driveway to talk to him and let him hold me. Our oldest son came running outside with a card he had made for Ike (that's what he was up to in the office) and neatly tucked it under the blanket through his sobs. We decided to bury Ike in the backyard, his home for 7 years, which my husband soon found out required a trip to the store for a pickaxe as the shovel just couldn't do the job. The younger boys went with him, which was a good distraction for them. By the time they returned, I had distracted their big brother with cartoons and distracted myself with some household chores. My dear spouse took care of the burying, and when it was complete we all went out to say a few words and a prayer of thanks for Ike's life.
The day is a blur. We had a few places to go, which helped take our minds off the events of the morning. I didn't make the boys do much school, but I soon realized that some reading would be a good place to focus our minds, so we read for a while and made some Lego creations. As I went about daily activities, I realized just how much Ike has been in the back of mind for the past 13 years. Does he need to go outside? Does he need food or water? Does he want a treat? Will he come eat the food I just dropped on the floor? Where is he so he can clean up the crumbs little boys inevitably make all around their chairs at the dinner table? Do we have time to take him for a walk? The boys broke out into sobs several times as these kinds of things hit them, too. I'm sure it will be weeks before we aren't looking for Ike subconsciously -- and crying a little when we remember he isn't there. Even as I type this in the darkness, I feel he is in the room with me because he has always been there. I have been aware that he was never far away for so long.
I woke up at 4 a.m. and left the room so my crying wouldn't wake my husband. I felt a mixture of regret and guilt for the things I should have done, the treats in the cabinet and bones in the freezer that I was going to give him someday. (In fact, aren't regret and guilt twins, or at least close cousins?) I remembered how I cursed the profuse amounts of hair that Ike had shed and I had to sweep and vacuum up incessantly. I remembered how sometimes the insistent way he would nudge and eventually set his head in my lap to be petted could get annoying, especially when I was wearing nice clothes that I didn't want covered in hair. I remembered how I yelled at him for barking at strangers when he was just trying to protect us and how I jerked his leash when he wanted to sniff that spot just a little too long.
Only a few minutes had passed before I knew I couldn't think about those things any longer. When we lose someone, we tend to do that to ourselves. My experiences with loss are pretty much limited to old dogs and grandparents at this point in my life, so I can only imagine how hard it must be to lose someone long before the expected time of life. So many things left undone and unspoken. Friends say, "She wouldn't want you to beat yourself up," or "He would want you to remember the good times." Yes, that's true, but sometimes the "could-have, should-have, would-haves" just catch up with us.
So today, I will be tired and puffy-eyed as I insist that we do our school work. I will cringe when I drop food and there's no one to call over to eat it. I will look outside absent-mindedly only to realize I was looking for Ike in the yard. I will cry with my son whose writing assignment this week was to make an outline of details about his favorite animal or pet and we attempt together to make all of those details into sentences and a paragraph. I'm sure tomorrow that paper will be crinkled with all the wet spots that have dried, but it will also be treasured.
The other dogs and even the grandparents I have lost were no longer a part of my daily life when they passed, except Abe, and I happened to be on the opposite side of the country when he died (plus we had only had him a couple of years). This really is the first time I have lost someone who has been a significant part of my life day in and day out for so many years, and it is actually the first time I have been there in the exact moment when death was coming. I think what I have learned in the past 21 hours is:
It's OK to cry. As much as you need to.
When feelings of guilt and regret come, focus on a happy memory instead.
Busy work can distract, but it can't stop the floods of memories or waves of emotions.
I can't forget and wouldn't want to, but I can expect the rawness to wear off and the pain to heal with time.
How much time it will take will vary from person to person in my home, and I need to be prepared for a little boy to burst out in tears at any moment, at least for a few days.
We all know death will come, and I think perhaps the very best way to prepare for it is to open our hearts ever more to those around us. If we love with all we can, give our best to those we love, do what we know we should for those around us, and spend time with the people (and creatures) God has given us while we have the chance, then I think in time the good times and happy memories will override the sadness and any regrets we may have. We can't help missing them or wishing we could have more time with them, but I want joy and thankfulness for the time we did have to carry me through, rather than being tossed around by a guilty conscience. I rest assured that we gave Ike a happy home, a place in our family, and a corner in our hearts that he will always occupy. I'm so thankful I got to be "mom" to such a great dog and that my boys' childhood memories will forever be sprinkled with memories of one of the best dogs they will ever know. Good-bye, Ikey-boy.