saying goodbye

It's therapeutic and cathartic for me to write. So write I will.
I apologize, in advance, for the heavy subject matter.
And if you decide to stay, thank you for listening.

April 18, 2008
It was time for Kona. Her body was breaking down, she was a shell of the dog I've known, skeletal and bony, and feeble.

It felt like the right time - when she was in a place where she could still recognize us and respond and could still be spunky and spirited. When she still had her faculties and her senses about her. But oh, how it hurt, nonetheless. How we still questioned whether it was right. Whether we had the right to make such a decision. Whether we should wait. Whether we should simply let nature take its course.

We fed her peanut butter cookies, when the sedative went in. Dr. Young, a beautiful and compassionate vet, had warned us that sometimes animals react strongly to the sedative - because of it's potency and because of the sheer quantity that they give. Kona didn't even acknowledge that she had a needle - so intent was she on her treats. She gorged herself! Her eyes were bulging with excitement. Her ears were perked forward. She simply could not believe that she was being given so many treats. Never had she been allowed to have so many cookies at any one time. Oh man, this was good, she told us. Give me more! Her excitement was palpable.

After many cookies, she started licking her lips, soaking in the head rubs and caresses and the gentle strokes on her paws and her back end. Her ears relaxed, and for a bit, she seemed mellow and just plain content. Belly full. Love being given. Life was good.

When the sedative kicked in, she had, what the vet described as, a hallucinogenic reaction. Her ears went into an alert position and her eyes shifted from side to side, back and forth. It was like she was hunting down a fly or a wasp, and was intent on following it and getting it. Watching, shifting, slightly tense. Only her face seemed to be animated and alert , the rest of her started to soften and sink into a very deep, and relaxed state.

Mike lowered her head onto a pillow and nestled her in his lap. He caressed her face. Stroked her muzzle. Played with her soft ears, and talked to her - about the fun places she'd be able to explore, the adventures she'd have, where she didn't have to worry about her body giving out on her. Where she could romp and run and swim to her heart's content. Where she could play and frolic. He talked to her about how much he loved her and how much a part of him she was.

She stayed in his lap. I played with her big paws, my fingers seeking out the tufts of hair that grew between the pads. Telling her I loved her, that she was a good girl, that everything was OK. And we sobbed while the final injection was administered. Her body was so warm, her fur so soft and silky, and her face so alive. Content and animated.

I haven't cried so hard in a long while. I cried for this beautiful animal, this animal child of mine, who came into my life by chance, and who gave me so much free and open love. Love without reservation. Love of a scale that moves me to tears when I allow myself to experience it. Love in the depths of those chocolate brown eyes that stared at me, unafraid, openly, intensely. As if to say, "There you are." Without holding back.

I cried for that time of my life , the 13 years, that I spent with her. The memories, adventures, changes that she simply took in stride, in her easy-going, adaptable, happy-go-lucky spirit. As long as we were there with her, she was content. And so accommodating.

I cried for losing something and letting go of something that loved ME so much. It's not often in one's lifetime that you can be the recipient of such an intense love affair. It makes you feel awfully small and insignificant to walk away from that. To know that you may never know that kind of attention and profound simplicity of an uncomplicated love. In it's most raw and open form.

I cried for Mike's loss. For him finally being on his own - and having to experience coming home to any empty house. For the loss of his anchor and his friend. Kona kept him so grounded and made him feel that he had a family.

And I cried because I was closing this final chapter of my relationship with Mike. After so long, the umbilical cord is cut. It's possible that I may never see him again.

She was so still when she was gone, and yet she looked so much like herself. I walked to the bathroom at one point, and when I came back, I just expected her to rise up. To pant. To look me in the eyes and paw me, as if to say, "OK, now what?"

The worst was watching Mike carry her to the van. Her body was so limp, and it hit me hard that she was really gone. We covered her in a blanket, chuckling feebly at her tongue that was slightly pointing out. The tongue that we used to grab when she panted, tugging, trying to get her to play. We hugged and cried. And that was it.

Mike gave me a picture before I left - of me stroking Kona's head. the week before her death. She looks skinny and her muzzle is white, but it's the same face and body that I've known through the years. Funny how things can change so significantly and yet seem like they haven't changed at all. It felt as if it couldn't possibly be real that she was gone. And yet she is. As the Indigo Girls said "And if it was ever there, and it left, does that mean it was never true?"

I don't think so.