There are three clean dog bowls by the sink, which, now means there’s one less dog than bowls. I stare at the three and feel the loss, the absence of the first creature that made Husband and I a family. I’ve heard that the decision to put down a pet is impossibly hard but, truthfully, I didn’t find the decision hard. It was Jersey’s time and any decision we made contrary to that would have been for us—not him. The decision wasn’t hard but grieving a pet is another story.
I’m sitting with Jersey in an examination room. I called Husband so I know he and the kids are on their way and while my heart is breaking into tiny fractured pieces, my first thought— after getting this right for Jersey— is getting it right for the kids. People don’t remember you when you’re young. The years pass so quickly, and yet so gradually, that how things are today seem like how they have always been. We forget what once was, what used to be. We forget who we were, who others were and how we all change. Jersey has been old for so long that it’s hard to remember a time he wasn’t old. But this isn’t the Jersey I want any of us to remember.
I’d rather remember him like this:
I sit with my arms wrapped around his little body that lay coiled tightly like a worm—how he always slept. He has a chemical smell to his body which is typical with kidney issues and I take out my phone to start looking for pictures and videos of when he was young. He wore a tuxedo at our wedding and I am admittingly biased, but, in his day, he was the most handsome, dapper dog there ever was. We joked that he was a gentleman and that he’d definitely order a dry martini—shaken, not stirred—at the dog bar.
Of course, there were dogs that ran faster but watching him when he ran his fastest was like catching a glimpse of wind. You could feel his freedom. I’ve never seen a dog that felt so free in those moments. And to understand the joy he must have felt, you’d have to know that he was a puppy mill rescue for the first four to eight years of life. So when he ran full out, he ran for all the years he missed out on.
The pictures remind me, excruciatingly so, that he was my shadow for many years. He was like Where’s Waldo (<<you gotta watch this)—you’d find him somewhere in the picture if I was there. I fall deeper into the heartbreak, reminded that he hadn’t been like this for some time now. The pictures remind me that he has been with us through every milestone moment. They’re supposed to make me feel better but the memories of what he used to be and the reminder of how time passes is sharp and brutal. They hurt.
But I keep scrolling and saving; I want my kids to get lost in what Jersey was. For once, I want to encourage them to live in the past and know that we gave this dear dog a wonderful life. This frail body they see is the end but it’s the end of a well-lived story.
They walk into the room gingerly. “Is Jersey dead?” My son asks. I love how kids just to know to get to the bottom of things.
“No, not yet. But he’s very weak,” I respond.
The kids pet him gently afraid they’ll break him or scare him if they pet too hard but the chemical smell is strong and soon they go outside to sit in the waiting room. Husband sits down. He just came to bring the kids and say his own goodbyes and then take them home but he thinks about staying.
“If you feel like you need to be here, you should stay. This isn’t a moment you want to regret.” I tell him. “The kids will be fine out there.”
The vet tells us what the process will look like but he sounds warped and far away. I keep looking at Jersey, wanting to take in every one of these final moments. I remember what I told something myself earlier this week, the principles I’ve based Drinking the Whole Bottle on for the last 8 years—that living the most real, wondrous life—living life “uncorked” with humor, courage, and love— means opening my heart to all of this. The human experience, if you’re doing it right, means feeling everything. Even the pain. We rejoice and celebrate and know how to love because we’ve mourned and grieved and cried. We know what we have because we know what we’ve lost. And after the abyssmal pain of grieving a pet, we can make way for love and gratitude that we got to love something so much.
I hover over his small frame, maybe 8 pounds—wet—and howl. His fur is wet because I’m crying over him and I hold nothing back. My eyes hurt, like the tear ducts are backed up with tears because they aren’t coming out as fast as I can produce them. A few times I think I might be sick. I’ve prayed over him the last few days, praying that I could be with him in the end and, now, it’s been answered.
The kids come in, they ask if we are crying and then remark, “I’ve never seen you cry like this.”
“We lead a good life. But today is hard,” I tell them.
“I’m going to miss Jersey,” they add sincerely and then bury their heads in my belly.
We walk home and the sunset, which I often complain I don’t see very much of in Guadalajara, is beautiful. Somehow the world has more color on this dim evening. There are always two sides. Perspective. If I look at his life as something tragic that was taken from me, I’ll never see the gift he actually was to me and the gift that I believe we were to him. I’d miss that for a decade we gave Jersey a life that spanned 3 countries, plentiful vacations, a safe home, and a family that loved him and that he gave me fierce loyalty and unconditional love.
The empty bowl sits by the sink. It reminds me that we’re missing something, that we’ve lost him. It also reminds me we were lucky enough to have had him.
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