We are lucky to be able to say that those we are closest to are still alive; our parents, our siblings, our close friends. Because of this, we've yet to experience that true, heart-wrenching loss that takes your breath away. So, when we put my sweet, 15 year old mini dachshund to rest yesterday, it hit me with a pain I didn't know existed.
Mourning over the loss of a pet can seem irrelevant when there are people losing loved ones daily, but fuck, it's hard. I remember one miserable spring where our family dog and my grandmother passed away in the same week, and my father said "I think I cried more over the dog than my own mother". There's something about a dogs unconditional love, their sweet little faces, and the fact that they are helpless without us that makes losing them so difficult.
Petey was always a pain in the ass. He was rescued from a puppy mill where his cage was also his bathroom, making it tough to house train him. He used to walk around our dining room table and piddle as he did, leaving an irritating stream of piss everywhere. We drove to get him from the mill - that was later closed for mistreating pups - when I was 17 years old, in a snow storm, the day after I had knee surgery. We tried crating him that first night which only lead to endless barking, and I begged my dad to let me sleep with him. I remember him telling me that if I started that habit now, it would be hard to break later, but I put him on the recliner with me where I recovered from surgery and he was my constant lap dog ever since.
He barked at every little noise. When I had my babies, it was hard to get a newborn to sleep only for the wind to blow loud enough to send Petey into a barking frenzy, and so he took turns living with my parents for a few years while I adjusted to parenthood. During his time with my dad, he got lost. They were walking in the woods a mile or two from my childhood home, got skittish around another dog, and pulled the leash from my dad's grip. My dad called for him for hours, and decided to head home incase the little guy made his way back. He didn't. My dad looked for him for days, and we dubbed him a goner. Until one morning, 8 days after he ran off, he managed to get out of the woods, cross a 4 lane traffic road, run down the side street and along the busy road home. He showed up at my dad's front door skin and bones, with his leash chewed to a nub. To this day I wish he could talk so I knew what happened to him in those 8 days, but it was a miracle to get him back, where my dad nicknamed him The Wonder Dog.
One summer, we took him camping on our family trip, where he decided to have diarrhea inside my sleeping bag in the middle of the night.
In recent years, his accidents in the house became more frequent. He would bark in his crate every couple of hours during the night to be let out - it was like having a newborn all over again. We knew if we left his crate open he would leave us gifts all over the house, but I needed sleep, so we came up with a bedtime routine. Every night, we would move the coffee table off of our living room rug, roll the rug up, lay our dining room chairs down on the floor to barricade the hallway, and play white noise in hopes of him sleeping a little more soundly. I started every morning by turning on all the lights and search for the piss-puddle I knew would be there. Sometimes it would spread the length of our entire kitchen. As his back legs worked less and less, he would tip over into his mess, and drag all the way back to his crate. My floors got washed every single morning.
Waking up this morning to an intact living room and no pee to clean up was weird.
He started to get really disoriented in our home, struggling to find his way to the door and randomly staring at walls. He was still eating, but less. He slept all day.
I made the decision to put him down early last week, when his back legs were really bad and he began whining in pain. I cried when I made the appointment, and every single day leading up to it. It's a guilt ridden thing to be able to choose your dogs death date. After years of him living off and on with us, and being frustrated by his barking and mess making, I just wanted him to know how loved he was. I would come home every day from work, lay him on my chest, and cry for hours. I've never said "I love you" more in my life. Naturally, this past week, his legs seemed to work fine, making my decision that much worse. But I knew more painful days were ahead of him, and we went ahead and brought him in.
I took him to the beach where we spread out a blanket and cuddled. I fed him chicken sausages and string cheese. He got up and staggered to the ocean, where his tiny tail would wag anytime the waves lapped him. Strangers came up to pet him, causing me to lose my shit. The kindest woman and her daughter overheard me, and she came right over and wrapped me in a hug. She stayed with me, shared stories of a dachshund in her family, and offered to take photos of us during his last few hours. It was one of the kindest moments. From there I took him for ice cream, where I barged in unaware that they weren't open yet. They kindly gave me a doggie cup for my boy, and I sat outside with him wrapped in a beach towel while he enjoyed his treat. The workers came out a few minutes later and gave me two gift cards for free ice cream cones.
Coming home for that final time was tough. Watching the girls say tear streaked goodbyes was tougher. On the drive to the vet, I wanted nothing more than to turn right back around. He wouldn't have to suffer if I just held him 24-7, spoon fed him soft food, and camped out on the couch with him each night. But I knew that wasn't realistic. I sobbed, and repeated "oh, fuck" the entire ride. The vet gave him a quality of life evaluation, where she agreed it was likely time to let him go. Hardest moment I've had to live through yet.
They gave him a sedative that took 5 minutes to fully kick in, where we cuddled him, cried with him, told him how much we loved him and what a good boy he's been. Once he was asleep, they laid him on the table in the fuzzy blanket we brought him in, and gave him the final injection. I can't get the image out of my mind of the vet holding the stethoscope to his chest and telling us he's gone. I kissed his sweet little face one more time even after he had passed.
That night, everyone left. I wanted to be alone to ugly cry and mourn my dog of 15 years. I cried like I've never cried before. My chest hurt. I missed him with a deep pain that physically hurt. I spent hours laying in front of his crate, snuggling his blanket, and missing my cuddle buddy. He was my first baby. He came before kids, before marriage. He has lived so many lives with me and now he's gone. I sat our under the stars, wrapped in his blanket, crying "I'm so sorry" to the sky.
This morning when I came down the stairs and saw his empty crate, it hurt. I feel guilty, sad, heavy. I've never had a loss like this, and it truly sucks. I'll miss him forever, but am so thankful for all the years - especially the last few where he really slowed down, causing me to be more present with the little guy. I want him back, I want one more cuddle, one more adventure, but I know he's not in pain anymore, and is hopefully playing games of fetch with my grandpa up there. Loss sucks.
