This Time Around. Coming To Terms With The Death of My Beloved Pup..

Veteran territory. I have been here before. The wound is soo deep it seems fresh, draining, life threatening. Death has been to visit me before. We haven't come to terms with each others presence, nor purpose. IT is still an unwelcome intruder. Albeit, ominous and undeniable, still IT calls, I collude, and yet, IT always wins, as I feign fractured and defeated. Again, and, again.

Our pets never live long enough. You can try to push the limits of pet-mortality with purchasing a parrot,, get yourself a good chance at a millennia, but dogs, if you stay mainstream canine, are lucky to see their teenage years, incredibly blessed if they hit two decades, and if you like to go big, or even "giant" you may not ever see double digits together.

I have learned that my heart can barely handle this pain every 10 years. I need, want, choose, hope, pray, beg, for a decade of longevity. Turns out my track record reflects this. "The older I get, the smaller my pets get." It is a hard-learned trade secret to try to spare me the loss every 5 years, or so, and it allows me to be able to carry them when their winter starts to wither and their bones can no longer support their ambulatory requirements.

The last few years has marred me with the loss of two beagles; Jekyll (just last month), and Savannah, a few years ago.

It took me weeks to get out of the grey fog I was flailing in with Savannah's loss. I just couldn't get out of the programmed repetitive daily motion I had become so accustomed to. The getting up at all times of the night. The managing her hysteria, messes, and failing functions. Undoing the habitual duties she set into my daily life took time. All the while desperate to go back to that place of interrupted sleep that her deprived mania brought just to have her back with me. But her loss was explainable, excusable, sensible. She had made it to 16. A ripe old age. A respectable age for any dog. She could be grieved but not denied a silver lining sentiment for surpassing the acceptable tenure. I could complain that her loss hurt, but I couldn't expect sympathy that she hadn't been afforded a long loving life.

Savannah

Jekyll, my most recent loss, another beagle, passed away at 8. He got cheated. I have anger lining that grief. Bitter shards to embalm him in. Seething pain to intern him with. Dust to damnation. A cursed cruel loss.

jek

The pit of my grief with his death lies here. The time frame cut too tragically short. The agony of desperate attempts to buy another "good" day for him. The exhaustion in losing the big battle. The responsibility I feel as having been the ultimate master of his destiny and purveyor of his curtain call. It is a terribly painful place to be. The ultimate responsibility can leave you with the lifetime of despair in second guessing and brow beating every previous decision. Sad couldn't begin to capture my angry bitterness. Except to mar it with also feeling responsible. That little fact made it crushing to swallow, impossible to move on, and fraught with such self doubting so that no piece of me was big enough to reassemble.

The days after his passing were simply about getting up, getting dressed, crying in the car to work, choking on grief and visible despair , all the while attempting to trudge into a day I dreaded facing. It also brought me back to why. The why of this profession? The immense magnitude of the responsibility we carry. The joy and the pain and the immeasurable grief it brings when you build a life around another.

The why we let them into our homes and hearts? The why we incorporate them into all parts of our lives? The why it is so easy to love them and yet so impossibly hard to lose them?
The why is the reason for everything we do as a parent and a veterinarian. It is important to always remember the WHY's?

I can love this pup, let him go knowing life too often works in its unfair ways, and not be ashamed, embarrassed or surprised when it repeats itself in my clients lives. If you can't feel a loss you cannot love. They are inseparable. It is what makes a vet a real person in the right profession for the right reasons.

I know this. I believe this. The tough part is living this when my own heart is shattered after losing the little one I loved so completely. It is grieving. Understandably. Grieving without withdrawal from ever opening your heart again is what I believe to be the most devastating part of pet loss. This is where I spend time talking to clients. It is normal to grieve. Grieve, however you need to, for you. Take time for yourself. Make a place to memorialize your pets life. A place to know you can go to to tell them how much you miss and love them. Live in the memories of your time together. But, try to not blame yourself. Try not to get stuck here. I know it is hard. I spent weeks here feeling like I, me the great powerful veterinary healer, could surely have saved my beloved boy. I had time, financial resources, access to the best specialists. Every tool to make him survive even the worst disease. It didn't happen, He left too soon. I lost him. I failed him.

Me and Jek at the oncologist's office.

That was exactly how I felt. Can you imagine how everyone else who doesn't have a decade of being a doctor, a clinic at their disposal, an Army of specialists, a bank account dedicated to dog care feels?

We will all lose a love because life always meets death. But giving up on loving again, ever having a pet again, that's where the real tragedy for me is.

So many clients give up after their pet dies. I think they feel it is too painful to go through again, or, like me they feel as if they will never find another pet who fills the shoes, measures up to the caliber of loyal/obedient/dedicated/wonderful there pet did. It is natural to not want to feel awful again. But not feel again? That's a loss that costs more than any heart should endure.

You cannot go through life living it if you try to not feel it,, good, bad and everything in between.

We all write the chapters of our own book. My book, each deep rich chapter of it has always been delineated and defined by the four legged family who made the tapestry the vivid, meaningful experience it was. The many homes, the varied geography, assorted jobs, were all the background that set my stage for each chapter whose central characters were always the dogs, cats, and pigs who made this life colorful and rich. They were, and are, the most important and meaningful pieces of the life I created and treasure. Some took up hundreds of pages. Some saw me through decades of questions trying to create the adult the kid was dreaming of. Some were short poems, a life too little, too fragile and too small to last past a haiku on an abbreviated page. But I am a richer, wiser, more content and accomplished thanks to their acceptance, love and wisdom.

You would think that with all of these chapters, all of the times I have been through loving and losing them that I would be better at grieving? My previous practice would make perfect assembly line efficiency of recovery? Yeah, not so much. I still invest whole heart immersed, drown in despair with loss, and trudge ugly through getting over it. Practice has not made perfect, unless that perfect implies pitiful.

The loss of Jekyll and Savannah took me weeks, months, longer/forever, to come to terms with. I will never "get over them." They were too monumental for that. All I wanted from myself when getting through their loss was to not give up. It was all I could hope for. They were loved. (I can say that with total conviction). There are millions (millions) of equally deserving (I can say that with complete honesty also) who never know a kind hand. I still have that to give. I may be broken and hurt, but I can still be kind to a furry face. I have to think beyond me. Society, civilization rests on this. It does transcend past human to human. Anyone who has ever loved a pet knows that. The world is better for all of us because we can love each other, regardless of size, shape, color, claws, fur, or fins. Love that is compassion is the key to life. All life and all living. This is what I believe, and remind myself of when reeling in loss.

Here's what happened to me after Jekyll passed away. I cried a lot, for days, weeks.  I told the people around me that while I appreciated their sympathy I couldn't talk about it at work. I had to stay busy and focused around the grief.

After two weeks I started trying to put my toes back in the water. I started looking at the pets in the shelters and at the local rescues. None of them were Jekyll. None of them pulled me into compulsion to step forward for them to come home with me. None of them were Jekyll. I was looking for that face. That smile. Those ears. Some tiny resemblance to jar me into adoption and out of affliction. I realized that obviously I wasn't really ready. I wanted to be ready. I just wasn't. I started spending loads of time with Charleston, my other dog. The left behind dog while we were all so focused on Jekyll. He had been neglected while Jek took so much of my time to monitor, treat, and obsess on. I owed him help in his grieving to. He was as heart broken as I was. We went on lots of walks, changed the room around. Got new toys. A little distracting helps pets adjust to a different routine and life. He got quiet and withdrawn. He missed his instigator and boisterous beagle brother. He was always the shadow behind that dynamic personality. He never saw his own sunshine  without Jekyll pointing the way.

Charlie was depressed.. But, he seemed more than withdrawn. He seemed deflated.. Vet mode mom kicked in (although it felt like paranoid vet mom). What would I do if he was dying too? Charlie's blood work revealed a low thyroid. I put him on medication to see if this would help resolve his lethargy, depression and sadness. It helped quite a lot. He started to wag again.

The next set of events changed everything. It added a new chapter and pulled me out of isolation and despair. A hurricane hit. Storm landed. (more on him soon). Hurricane Florence lands.

I added two very sick puppies within 3 weeks. We needed each other. I remembered I had a purpose outside sadness. I am alive again with them. I can go on. Being needed and loved helped me remember to start writing the next chapter, again. I was pulled out of grief by two sick puppies. I reinvested my energy into them, constructive caring, versus my grief soaked couch. Charlie, well it took about a week to realize they were residents, but when he could no longer ignore their incesant chew-bite instigation, he started to play. Within two weeks we stopped his thyroid meds (there is no medical study to back this, but its true). Charlie, and I, were back with the living.

I wasn't ready. I have no idea how long we will get together. But the time with them is far better than the wallowing in despair. We need each other, all of us. Loneliness is the gateway to despair and my puppies are waiting for me at home.

To all of those out there drowning in grief I hear you. I know. There is a way out. Reinvest your whole self in a pet. They need you as much as you need them. You can help each other to the shore. I send you all love and support.

For more information on who Jarrettsville Veterinary Center is please visit our Facebook page, or our website.

If you have a pet question or a story about your pet to share so we can start to help others who might be in the same situation you are (or were), please visit us at Pawbly.com. It is free to use and open to everyone.

If you want to learn more about pet care visit my YouTube channel here. 

Miracle's Touch

I gave myself a little ultimatum last week..I would write the blog about dealing with the days after saying goodbye, then I would close the last chapter and the back cover of the book of Savannah's life and put it on the shelf.

I would walk away with a sense of closure, relief, and move on..

If only life was so easy., But we all know it isn't. Our heart doesn't always listen, or obey, our head.

I have put away all of Savannah's blankets, bedding, rugs, bowls, baby gates, and baby monitors. I have given away all of her clothes, her harnesses, and anything else of any value to another pet in need. Having the daily visual reminders left me feeling as if I was forgetting someone?, something?, somewhere?, and all of the worry that has consumed me for a year flooded back on top of me.

Today, two weeks later, I cleaned out the cupboards of junk pet food, baby food, cat food, soup, and supplements, and medications that I had gotten for her. Two bags of food stuffs and meds to leave at the clinic for some other pet struggling to find anything interesting enough to contemplate prehending and swallowing. Older dogs, sick dogs, and medicated dogs often need a change of pace to be coaxed into eating.  Or, maybe her pile will have the possible elusive miracle elixir for another pet suspected of suffering from cognitive dysfunction, sleep arrythmia, infection, pain, anxiety..the list goes on.

Savannah will once again try to help another pet even though she isn't present.

Her reminders might be packed and distributed but the house is still brimming with cards, flowers, and trinkets sent from far and wide. The generous gestures of condolences and sympathies from people who read Savannah's story and were touched enough so to send a card, a basket of flowers, a tiny rose bush, a medallion in silver that reads "Always With You", and some of the most heart felt words of encouragement, sympathy and understanding imaginable.

March 2012

There are many people to Thank. I wanted to send a special "thanks" to you all..I am grateful from the very bottom of my heart.

On Thursday night I helped a family say goodbye to their beloved German Shepherd. He was the shadow of every step of the last decade of their lives. Mom, dad, and two boys sobbing in desperate grief over saying goodbye to their very ill but still soo stoic and brave dog. Half of the staff told me that they couldn't be present. They knew that dog too well, were too sad to be present, and the tears of two young boys was all too much. I understand. But, someone had to help this dog who clearly was ready to move onto a life without pain and trouble breathing..so I had to help.

As I sat in the room with the family the mom looked at me tears streaming down her face and said, "I told my co-workers that I wasn't sure I could work tomorrow. They laughed at me. That I would need bereavement for my dog."

All I could do was hug her, and tell her that "there are some people who never know what it is to love, and therefore they never understand what it is to grieve."

I know how lucky I am to be surrounded by people who understand. There is great comfort in knowing that I don't have to explain why I am sad, why I feel a sense of loss, and why I need time and space.

I cherish the letters, I will keep them forever. I will use them to help my clients, my staff, and myself. Loving a pet is simply a way to feel less alone..that's what we give to each other..Thank you Savannah, family, and friends for giving me that..

I wanted to share a few letters that I thought might help others;

Dr. Magnifico,

I am not a client of your vet center but  follower of your Facebook site. A friend recommended your site after my dog Miracle passed. I have enjoyed also your blog. You made me smile and cry with all of the adventures. Most of all dear Savannah caught my heart and I cheered for her and prayed.
It is strange how people often question why some people work so hard to extend a good life for a pet. 

Why? 

It comes down to true love.

Most people don't understand it. But both of us do.

Savannah and you were a team and like a soldier you don't leave a member behind. No one could have done a better job.

As I read your goodbye blog my heart broke for you and I cried. All battles do have an end that I know. The battle has been finished but in my eyes you won. She was surrounded by people and animals that loved her. Wren's pictures with tears proved that.

The years of love and memories will carry us until we meet our beloved animals again.

Just let me say - A job well done.

Take care dear lady,
Sharon

Also from Sharon,

I would hope that in a person's lifetime they get to share their life with an animal. And if you are very lucky one that becomes your best friend. I was lucky to share almost 15years with an extraordinary mix breed dog that was left on the side of the road. We rescued each other.

At her passing Miracle's Touch became alive to help pay forward kindness that we had recieved. Every month part of what had been Mir's monthly medicine cost is still put aside to share with others.

It is with great honor Miracle's Touch would like to donate in Savannah's memory..to your hospital fund to help other animals. She was an amazing animal who reminded me of my dog.

Memories can never be taken away from us. Our hearts will never ever be the same but we were blessed.

Miracle's Touch, 
Sharon

Such a happy girl..
March 2012

Grief and the Days that Follow Saying Goodbye

Savannah's first baby picture

It has been a week in a long 18 year story. Not days of vacation, but days of separation. I am still here and you are gone. Not to any place I can see you, carry your little flannel draped body under my arm, rub your velvet ears, or hold your little foot in my hand. There are no more kisses on my hand, sleeping in my arms, or days for me to thank god that I still got to share with you. I am filled with sadness and I miss you.

If the hardest thing was the acceptance of that horrible realization that you were better off away from the body that carried your free spirit for all of those years, the truth is that the act of putting your body to rest was excruciating. It took a leap off a cliff without being able to breathe. There was never a sadder moment, a more painful wound to open, or a decision completely my own that I wanted to flee and hide from more.

How your heart can duel with your sense of responsibility, obligation and selflessness I do not know?

After Savannah took her last breath, fluttered her last heartbeat and slipped her last moment from my life I cried in hysterics as all of the fear, doubt, pain and guilt drowned me.

The tears of exhaustion of months of interrupted sleep, clean-ups, and attempts to soothe a colicky child who answered only to the mysterious whispers that only she heard caught up with me, ambushed and overcame me. 

The grief of those first few days was crippling. As a friend said it best, “the loss was devastating.” And that’s what it is.

Trying to get through the first day was the hardest. I am thankful for my husband’s shoulder to lean on and my bed to lie in. What resulted was a meltdown of epic size. I know myself well enough to know that I need time, space and a place without interruption, away from the well-wishers, simpatico sentiments, or intrusion. I know that I need to be quietly alone as I try to cope with the grief of losing someone that my life revolved around. It has always been difficult for me to articulate why. Attempts to assuage my concerned friends, my protective slightly overbearing mother, and my staff (who thank goodness have seen me here before and know that a little note in my mailbox is the safest way to express a sympathy without sending me into an uncontrollable tidal wave of tears), can't be done in person, or over the phone. I need to hide away for just a little while. You have to be true to who you are. Take a few moments to sit with your memories, pay tribute to the memory of your loved one, and remember to breathe. There is always a sunrise and a tomorrow and a tiny sparkle of faith that time heals even the deepest most tragic losses. But for me it happens after I close myself to the world, and furrow under the sadness.

That first night:
It was a blur of tears of loss, relief, guilt, question, doubt, fear, and loss. All mixed and muddled together. I needed and took time to wallow in the murk. I knew I had to let her go, and yet I struggled to find some small justifiable, excusable reason to keep her. I was soo tired. She was a burden. A heavy, relentless, inescapable curse.

And yet,  I racked my head to come up with one more option to thwart fate for one more day. Maybe if I sedated her, let her rest a few hours, put her in the underwater treadmill, bought a harness, or cart to support her back legs, maybe..just maybe I could buy her another day.. Maybe I could buy two, or three? Or…maybe..??

Wouldn't it just be easier to go through life in the middle? I could go to work and take care of other peoples pets. Get a lick, a purr, a jumpy happy puppy, all on someone else’s time, and heart strings. No attachments, no highs or lows, just midstream easy street. How many of my clients walk out of their pet’s euthanasia mumbling this sentiment? I understand why when your heart is crumbled and hurting.

That night was so quiet. No rumbling and stumbling in the night. No drinks of water. No pausing of my sleep to listen for her struggles, whimpers, cries, snoring, and breathing. I haven’t slept in months. It will make you crazy. There is guilt even in my restored sleep that I would happily trade back.

The day after: 
I took a look around my home. Every single square inch is another reminder of a life my home has lost. The whole main floor was Savannah-proofed and I was stuck internally dueling over how long I could keep her shrine in the middle of our house before my husband realized what I was doing, and, feeling like a grief obsessed and crippled mom. 

Day two:
I cleaned. Keeping my hands busy keep my mind quiet and made the time pass.

That night it hit me, the house was unwontedly quiet. There are four cats and two dogs in our home now and they were mute. I realized they have been this way for...oh, I would guess.. a year? It has been that long since I could remember them playing in the house. And there was yet another line item on my guilt list.  My other kids have given up on me, stopped asking for attention from me because I was too focused on Savannah.

I started telling Savannah’s story to try to help other dogs. But when you make your personal story public there is an obligation to telling the whole story. When Savannah’s story ended I wanted to hole up and bury my grief in solitude and silence. But that too would be selfish. So on day two I sat down and spilled it all out.

Day three:
I collected all of the things she left behind that I no longer need.  Four bags of bedding, her fleece onesies, her lights, her harnesses, the bumper guards, the rugs, the pee pads, the night lights, the refrigerator full of food options, they all went away. There would never be a moving on if I couldn't move it out. It broke my heart repeatedly.

I walk by her grave daily, like it calls to me as if I still need to check on her. I hope and expect it to bring me a tiny respite of peace, and it fails me every time.

I have heard from friends , family, and people I have never met about how they followed Savannah’s ups and downs and how her story resonated with them. Finding her, having her be a part of every day of the last 18 years, and knowing in my heart that 18 years is an incredibly lucky blessing that many wish for but never get, sharing her story and the love, support, and kindness that it paid forward has been life changing.

Going back to work helped. I needed to get out of the house, get away from the time and space and vacuum of grief. I needed to give my overactive mind a time out. I needed to share my love for my pets with other pets. There is no grief a wet nose, a wagging tail and the soft fur of a purring cat can’t cure.

Day four:
I can stand again. I can almost talk about her without sobbing and I can feel more gratitude than sorrow.

Day six:

I found myself talking about Savannah and my grappling with how I knew when it was time as a client sat sobbing and holding her depressed anorexic end stage heart failure pup.

“Well, when I knew that there was nothing else I could do to make her feel god, or keep her living a happy life I had to make a very hard, very unselfish decision to let her go.”

She looked at me and said, “This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do.”

“I know.” I replied.
I gave her a big hug and together we put her sick and dying dog out of the pain and suffering that a very sick heart causes.

For all of those of you who have lost a pet I extend a warm hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, and the promise that you are never alone. The love you give lives on, it never fades, and it never leaves you. If there is any way that you can look into the eyes of another pet you can perpetuate the love again do it for yourself, for another heart to heal, and for the memory of your departed. It helps, and your heart can fill again..that space of my heart that Savannah had is still there. But like my cardiology teacher taught me about the Frank Starling Law of the Heart, the size of the heart increases with the increased load placed upon it. So you see, your heart will get bigger and bigger the more you fill it..

Savannah and her best human friend dancing on the porch of our old house.

The original gang, walking the Virginia Tech campus.

I want to express my deep gratitude to my friends, family, staff, clients, and all of those that sent condolence cards, flowers, and even donations in Savannah's memory. I cannot express how much it helps and how grateful I am.

Thank-You.

And from a dear friend;

A LETTER FROM THE POST OFFICE

Our 14-year-old dog Abbey died last month.

The day after she passed away my 4-year-old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey.  She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her.  I told her that I thought that we could, so she dictated these words:

"Dear God,
Will you please take care of my dog? Abbey died yesterday and is with you in heaven.  I miss her very much. I 'm happy that you let me have her as my dog even though she got sick.  I hope you will play with her. She likes to swim and play with balls.

I am sending a picture of her so when you see her you will know that she is my dog.  I really miss her.

Love,

Meredith"


We put the letter in an envelope with a picture of Abbey & Meredith, addressed it to God/Heaven.

We put our return address on it.

Meredith pasted several stamps on the front of the envelope because she said it would take lots of stamps to get the letter all the way to heaven. That afternoon she dropped it into the letter box at the post office.

A few days later, she asked if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.

Yesterday, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch addressed, 'To Meredith' in an unfamiliar hand.

Meredith opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers called, 'WHEN A PET DIES.'

Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God in its opened envelope.

On the opposite page was the picture of Abbey & Meredith and this note:

"Dear Meredith,

Abbey arrived safely in heaven. Having the picture was a big help and I recognized her right away.

Abbey isn't sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me just like it stays in your heart.

Abbey loved being your dog.

Since we don't need our bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets to keep your picture in so I'm sending it back to you in this little book for you to keep and have something to remember Abbey by.

Thank you for the beautiful letter and thank your mother for helping you write it and sending it to me.

What a wonderful mother you have. I picked her especially for you.

I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.

By the way, I'm easy to find.

I am wherever there is love.

Love,

God"

How Do You Say Goodbye When You Can't Let Go?

This is how I will always remember Savannah.
Smiling, superior, divine, and splendid.

Savannah and her constant companion, Ambrose.

It is with a heavy heart and an ocean full of tears that I bid my dear girl goodbye yesterday.  

She has been my shadow, my companion, and my labor of love for 18 years.

Can't you tell who was always the boss?
She was always the brains of the operation,
Ambrose was the brawn of the bunch.
She could somehow convince him to do all sorts of naughty things
that I know he would have never dreamed up on his own.

Her favorite position to sleep in.
I always knew that she was content and happy when she faced the world belly up.

Savannah's typical view of the world,
"I'm in command and nothing can challenge my perception of this."

Savannah knew that I was her mom, she was at my heels at every step,
but I was never her favorite person,
Noah always was.

That smile was omnipresent.

The official Savannah and Ambrose family portrait.

If anyone doubts that pets share similarities with their parents all you had to do was see the two us of together. She was a stubborn, determined, un-waveringly demanding force until the end. Her body tried to continue to do the things that it had always done, but as the last few months stole her abilities she remained a reckoned fighter to get up, move on, and refuse assistance. She was tired, although her body had surrendered to the requirements of freedom to move, and she was pushing on to do things that her tiny frame could not answer to. It was impossible to keep her happy any longer. If she would have allowed me to carry her to eat, drink, and continue to live I would have done so. But her pride and resilience became the burden of her bodies inability to perform even the most basic of tasks. She was unable to walk anywhere except outside. She couldn't lift herself to get to the water, and her frustration manifested into screams of aggravation and exasperation. Even if I was holding her, she demanded her freedom, and I couldn't assuage this.

I have had to address the queries of on-lookers unable to understand that I knew her well enough to know when it was time to let her go. I was often left to defend my decision to others who I hope and believe had her best intentions in mind, but it made the weight of my decision more burdensome and more perplexing.

I knew yesterday when she tried dozens of times to get up and be her normal unencumbered self I knew I had to say goodbye.

She is one of the hardest cases there is. Her heart, lungs, organs, skin, bones, and body were in almost perfect order. She just landed that one last straw on her tired back and lost the ability to move herself around and she was furious about it.

I understood, I empathized, and I had spent the last year trying and exhausting every option for her. But there was nothing left to try. Nothing I could offer her, and no way to dodge the angel calling her any longer. Her body had surrendered, although she fought to accept it, and I had to let her go. There were no options left.

Every day has been a strict regimen of offering at least 4 options to eat every time she woke up or every 4 hours. I walked her through the coldest winter days and nights to try to salvage as much muscle mass as was possible. The terrible painful oxymoron of being a vet is knowing what lies ahead of each possible turn in the road and the binding ineluctable obligation to be the hand of healing, the parent, the paladin, and the hand of death. It wasn't until she was gone that I truly realized how small and fragile she had become. I don't even know how she lasted as long as she did on her bony body.

My husband held my hand as I let her go. It may be inexcruciably difficult to make the decision, but sitting next to her and sending her body away is the hardest task of my life. Joe offered to take her to the clinic, to spare me the pain and agony, but I told him that she would want to be here with us, and surrounded by those who love her the most. He said he was trying to protect the one he loves most, and all I could do is reply "that it's not about me."

He dug her grave, and we had a frigid cold service as he placed dozens of iris bulbs over her. She is at peace and I am left behind feeling grateful to have had 18 years and a lifetime of memories.

The house is ghostly quiet a day later. I have been holed up at home sobbing, replying with "Thank You's" to the dozens of friends posting their sympathies on Facebook, and doing the loads of laundry that removing her area of the hallway took up. I have four bags of towels, sheets, blankets, harnesses, jumpers, baby monitors, booties, baby food, cheap dog and cat food, pee pads, and throw rugs to donate.

I took down the tie out in the front yard.

Threw the repeatedly heavily cleaned after being heavily soiled rugs into the burn pile.

And spent the next day at home re-arranging every room of the main floor that had been "Savannah proofed."

I hear her whimper in the far corners of this now silent house, and feel compelled to follow my routine of spending every sleeping and waking second wondering if she needs me. There is the gnawing guilt, the sharp pain of grief, and the appreciable conditioning of a person who deals with loss everyday.

And I look around at Charlie, Jekyll, Jitterbug, Wren, Magpie, Oriole, and Strawberry who are all quietly sleeping and realize that they need me. I have had all of them on my back burner for a year while I took care of Savannah. I have some making up to do...

Jekyll and Charlie

Jitterbug, Wren, Oriole
and the puppies in their beds at the end of our bed.

Magpie

My Wren.
Who cries with me,
who came over to me and Savannah last night while I said my goodbyes.
She sat next to us and kissed Savannah on the head.
She is the one who keeps checking on me,
and who reminds me that I don't have forever to dwell on this,,
there are bellies to be rubbed.

Savannah left a big impression on many people. I am grateful for the friends who are so supportive and generous with their kind words and strong shoulders.

Pets with Santa and VMRCVM 2003

If you are struggling with the loss of a pet, there are many wonderful people who can help.

ASPCA Pet Loss Assistance, including a Pet Loss Hotline.

List of Pet Loss Support Hotlines

Association For Pet Loss and Bereavement

"Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.." Tennyson

Savannah's tale;

Knowing When It's Time To Say Goodbye.

My Miracle

The Excorcism

Taking Care of Your Geriatric Dog

Another Turn of the Tide

Surviving the Delusions

Cognitive Dysfunction Diary

Living and Losing the Last Moments with Your Terminal Dog

Tiny Steps and Big Hurdles

Almost Hospice

Care For Older Dogs

Savannah's Story

Update; Valentine's Day 2016. I miss my girl everyday. Those little velvet ears.. the patter of feet behind me, and the insistent demanding love and companionship. I was so fortunate to have shared so long with her. But I miss you always.. Love mom.

* End note; This post has spelling and grammar errors that I cannot fix.. I cannot stop crying long enough to convert the raw script into a polished edited post. I apologize.. This would require an unbiased third party.