This past June, my family had to say goodbye to our family dog, our source of entertainment, endless cuddles, and our seemingly bottomless pit of love. He was my yoga dog, my companion throughout my days in both fitness and leisure, and he was just short of total perfection in an animal. His death was too soon and too painful, both for him and for us, and everyone in the family, myself included, knows that there will never be another Oliver on the planet.
But, as is typical after the loss of a pet, after the initial pain begins to subside, and you stop tearing up at the mere thought of your furry friend, and after you've stopped thinking you see him every time you turn a corner in your house, you begin to feel that nag. That familiar pang of wanting to welcome a new member to the family. Dog people know what I am talking about, cat people know what I talking about. You know you can't replace or substitute that ideal animal that you've been forced to say goodbye to, but you know that you have room in your heart and your home for a new soul to squeeze.
Saturday afternoon, my husband and I took a trip to the county animal shelter to look at dogs. We weren't adopting that day, and we knew it, but we wanted to see what kind of pups were available. I am a rabid (pardon the pun) advocate of rescuing animals, and for $30 at my local animal shelter, I can adopt a dog or a puppy who has been vaccinated, fixed, registered, and microchipped. You can't beat that deal for a decade of love and companionship.
While at the shelter, we (of course) zeroed in on a precious little Boxer mix puppy named Panda. She was spritely and energetic, but not overtly so (at least at the time), and seemed to zero in on us as well. As the shelter was getting ready to close for the day, we only had about 10 minutes with her, inside her dog run. We both took to her, and talked about her for the last few days. We told the kids all about her, and decided that I would take a trip to the shelter this morning and begin the adoption process.
When I got there, I filled out the paperwork and asked to have some play time with Panda, outside of her dog run. I got a leash, went to her run, and my hear sank immediately. Not because she was gone, and not because something happened, but because when I looked at her, she wasn't Oliver. I knew at that moment that she was not the dog for us.
Things devolved quickly when she wouldn't let me pick her up. I managed to get her to the play area, and she was about a lightyear passed crazy. She never zeroed in on me like she had on Saturday, and she never stopped jumping and barking. There was no yoga dog in her, she was too fiery and too spunky to even let me rub her belly. I knew I wouldn't be taking her home with me.
The ride home was filled with disappointment. I am disappointed that I didn't feel THAT connection with this beautiful and spritely puppy. I am disappointed that I still compare every single dog to my Oliver. I am disappointed that I had to say goodbye to my yoga dog, and that I can't seem to move on.
More time is needed, obviously. I still have not accepted Oliver's death fully, and it would be cruel to try to bring home a new dog with me wearing that attitude. No pet deserves the pressure of having to live up to that, and the inevitability that s/he will fall miserably short of the mark.
So, I will let another month or two go by. Another month of that palpable absence of a pet in our home. Another month of my daughter asking when we are going to get a new dog. Another month of doing yoga without a companion.
The time will be right when it's right. A new yoga dog will make his or her presence known, and it will be undeniable when it happens.
Showing posts with label loss of a pet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss of a pet. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Monday, June 10, 2013
Goodbye, my yoga dog
Today, I watched a life come to a close. My stubborn, gentle, beautiful, loyal, and wonderful American Bulldog Oliver left us this morning, and it was both the most torturous and most peaceful moment of my life.
Oliver was not just our family dog. He was our yoga partner, our running partner, our alarm clock, our resident comedian, our touchstone. He warmed my feet after a cold run by laying all of his 80 pounds on them, and he was an excellent spooning partner. He was only 7 years old, and we had barely loved him for 4 1/2 years. He was taken from us by an aggressive cancer that left him skeletal and weak, a shadow of his former self. But he never lost the love in his eyes, and the wag in his tail, albeit a weaker wag in the end.
As we watched him slowly die in front of our eyes, the frailty of life - and its temporary nature - was thrust upon me. This once strong, barrel-chested animal that could knock over a 200-pound man with merely a nudge was reduced to limping across the house in a matter of a few months. And there was nothing we could do but relieve his pain with copious amounts of medication and continue to love him until we knew it was the end.
I drove him to the vet this morning knowing it would be THE day. His abdomen had swelled up over the night, and he was having trouble breathing. He had a look on his face that practically begged for me to make it all go away. When I arrived at the vet, they led me into a room with a squishy, comfortable sofa. I sat down, and Oliver looked up at me with a puppyish alertness that I had not seen on his face in a long time. I invited him to hop up, and he tried so hard, but just could not get there. For the first time since we had adopted him, I was able to pick him up - he had lost more than 30 pounds of his body weight - and I put him on my lap. He placed his head on my chest and I stroked his swollen belly, listening to his racing heartbeat and irregular breathing. For several minutes, I whispered to him all of the things I needed to tell him - how much he meant to me, how he'd healed my soul and spirit so many times, how I loved him - and he relaxed into my body as if to signal that he was ready. It was a most special moment. It was our moment of goodbye.
My husband arrived, and the vet prepped Oliver for the procedure. I had never been a witness to this before, but my husband had. He tried to assure me that it would be quick and peaceful. My husband crawled on the floor and laid on Oliver's chest whispering the same loving words to him that I had a few minutes earlier. Oliver lifted one of his front legs and placed his paw on my husband, as if to embrace him. It was their moment of goodbye.
When the time came, the vet administered the drugs, and we both gently stroked Oliver's belly. The quiet overwhelmed the room, it was smothering me. The vet checked his heart, and told us that he was gone. But he wasn't. He was laying right there, and I just felt like he was going to hop up and scurry out the door with us and hop in the car and come home with me, sniffing and biting at the wind out the car window, with his ears and jowls flapping.
But that would be a memory now.
His lifelessness was startling, but a relief. He was no longer in pain, and I desperately hope that he slipped away feeling our hands on him, hearing our voices telling him how much we love him. I was not prepared for the stillness, for the quiet. Or the anguish.
My husband's early morning winter runs won't be the same, and it will take me a while to get used to practicing yoga without Oliver stretching beside me. And there will never be another foot warmer like him.
It's so hard to say goodbye to the creatures we love, even when we are middle-aged and should seemingly be able to accept life's cycle. Love everyone and everything in your life at all times, because you just don't know when the chance to do it will be gone forever.
Oliver was not just our family dog. He was our yoga partner, our running partner, our alarm clock, our resident comedian, our touchstone. He warmed my feet after a cold run by laying all of his 80 pounds on them, and he was an excellent spooning partner. He was only 7 years old, and we had barely loved him for 4 1/2 years. He was taken from us by an aggressive cancer that left him skeletal and weak, a shadow of his former self. But he never lost the love in his eyes, and the wag in his tail, albeit a weaker wag in the end.
As we watched him slowly die in front of our eyes, the frailty of life - and its temporary nature - was thrust upon me. This once strong, barrel-chested animal that could knock over a 200-pound man with merely a nudge was reduced to limping across the house in a matter of a few months. And there was nothing we could do but relieve his pain with copious amounts of medication and continue to love him until we knew it was the end.
I drove him to the vet this morning knowing it would be THE day. His abdomen had swelled up over the night, and he was having trouble breathing. He had a look on his face that practically begged for me to make it all go away. When I arrived at the vet, they led me into a room with a squishy, comfortable sofa. I sat down, and Oliver looked up at me with a puppyish alertness that I had not seen on his face in a long time. I invited him to hop up, and he tried so hard, but just could not get there. For the first time since we had adopted him, I was able to pick him up - he had lost more than 30 pounds of his body weight - and I put him on my lap. He placed his head on my chest and I stroked his swollen belly, listening to his racing heartbeat and irregular breathing. For several minutes, I whispered to him all of the things I needed to tell him - how much he meant to me, how he'd healed my soul and spirit so many times, how I loved him - and he relaxed into my body as if to signal that he was ready. It was a most special moment. It was our moment of goodbye.
My husband arrived, and the vet prepped Oliver for the procedure. I had never been a witness to this before, but my husband had. He tried to assure me that it would be quick and peaceful. My husband crawled on the floor and laid on Oliver's chest whispering the same loving words to him that I had a few minutes earlier. Oliver lifted one of his front legs and placed his paw on my husband, as if to embrace him. It was their moment of goodbye.
When the time came, the vet administered the drugs, and we both gently stroked Oliver's belly. The quiet overwhelmed the room, it was smothering me. The vet checked his heart, and told us that he was gone. But he wasn't. He was laying right there, and I just felt like he was going to hop up and scurry out the door with us and hop in the car and come home with me, sniffing and biting at the wind out the car window, with his ears and jowls flapping.
But that would be a memory now.
His lifelessness was startling, but a relief. He was no longer in pain, and I desperately hope that he slipped away feeling our hands on him, hearing our voices telling him how much we love him. I was not prepared for the stillness, for the quiet. Or the anguish.
My husband's early morning winter runs won't be the same, and it will take me a while to get used to practicing yoga without Oliver stretching beside me. And there will never be another foot warmer like him.
It's so hard to say goodbye to the creatures we love, even when we are middle-aged and should seemingly be able to accept life's cycle. Love everyone and everything in your life at all times, because you just don't know when the chance to do it will be gone forever.
Oliver, my yoga dog
4/26/06 - 6/10/13
"Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened." ~Anatole France
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