Saying Goodbye

Osky Del Toro

I began writing this a few days before my dog died, when we thought he may have had an arthritis flare up. I was a wreck. Attempting to eat dinner with my family while crying to everyone’s averted gazes, because it turns out seeing an animal in pain is much harder for me than treating sick, adult humans. I knew I was not meant for pediatrics for the same reason–give me someone I can communicate with. Don’t leave me to infer about these tiny helpless things. I was feeling guilty for not giving my child the time she wanted with me at the end of the day while also feeling like things were nearing the end for Osky.

I lost my first pet I owned as an adult, semi-suddenly, after receiving a clean bill of health the day before. Nigel maybe had a heart attack, perhaps a secret insidious cancer. I hadn’t been home when it happened and I couldn't remember if I had given him much attention before leaving that morning. I think that is partially why I couldn’t stop crying about Osky’s sudden immobility and lack of appetite. It felt out of character with what was the recent reality of our day to day and it was scary and overwhelming. There has been so much limbo, here was more unknown, more surprises. All of this responsibility, the weight of loving these creatures and people daily, trying to do right by them also makes me want to run away sometimes. It hurts too much sometimes and I’m so tired.

Nigel, King of Kinsey Street. The neighborhood kids would trace his outline in chalk and he loved siting in a pot of dirt <3

I had written this on a Tuesday evening, some secret part of me knowing things were not right. With the crystal clarity of hindsight I now see that sweet Osky’s refusal of medication and dismissal of food was intentional, not a symptom of pain or nausea. He did not suffer long, his decline was swift and while we experienced an awful, torturous twelve hours where we felt helpless and hopeful it was side effects of a new medication, he was fading before us. What I take with me is that waiting allowed both me and my husband to be together, at the vet to say goodbye and pet him and tell him we were sorry, loving him as the vet ended such suffering. He was not alone, which gives me peace of mind for a dog that would rather climb into the shower with you than be alone during a thunderstorm.

I am missing the walks I would take in the morning with him in the pre-dawn dark, adorned with a headlamp listening out for wild turkeys, catching the red glare of animal eyes in the lamplight. It had become our thing. We had finally given him a proper yard where he could survey, lift his snout to the breeze and bark his face off at whatever threatened to encroach his territory.

Instead of pouring over my mistakes in his care over the past week I am forcing myself to focus on Monday afternoon when I came home from work to a tail wagging, smiling dog that playfully rammed his head into my legs as I walked him around our backyard, in the sun. We had taken up after-dinner walks as a family, where we would walk him down to a big field by a stream. He would buck and throw sticks in the air and roll around on his back. I remember on Monday seeing him twisting back and forth from one side to the other belly-up, mumbling dog-talk in the lush grass, feeling so relieved to see him back to his usual self.

I finally had a little more time and space and emotional energy for him after having a kid, after moving in December. We were getting back on the same level as we once were, when I was not yet a mom. On my days off from the hospital we would walk miles, sometimes with others, through college campuses, neighborhoods, parks and the like. He slept in our bed, and would crawl up onto our futon couch to nap under my legs during the day as I recovered from night shifts. I hope he felt that connection and love even when I was exasperated and up to my gills in creatures to care for years later, bitter and hissing and jerking him along, treating him like washing dishes, like vacuuming. Please forgive me, sweet luck dragon of a dog.

I hate coming home since he died. There is no greeting, no scrambling of claws on wood, no bear tail vibrating upon my arrival. I look out at my back yard and cannot stop the visions of him laying there, a tired, lump of fur unknowingly ready to say goodbye. I have started clearing a raised bed in my side yard and I desperately wish he were here to keep me company. The weather is so nice these days, and I can almost conjure him into existence still, as one can when a loss is still so fresh. It feels good to be outside in the dirt, in the breeze because it makes me feel like I am with him at the same time as feeling that much more without him. I lift my head and close my eyes and sniff and focus on the noises around me, on the sizzling sensation of the sun on my face and think this is where everything and everyone is that has left this life. I oscillate between being sad and reflecting on sweet memories and this is how it will be.

A little after Astrid was a year old, I could still carry her on my chest; one day, I took her and Osky to Druid Hill park to look for mushrooms. We went to the back of the park that cuts through the disc golf course–it was misty and gray, and I remember feeling unnerved even with the dog. Pretty early into the walk we came across a herd of deer staggered across the trail. We stood watching them for a long time, the deer barely moving, so still Osky took many beats to register their large bodies. Once he did he let it rip, barking and lunging. Astrid had just begun to talk and for the longest time would say “deer running?” “dog barking?” Eventually, turning into one of her favorite bedtime stories, morphing into our version of saying good night. To this day I will tuck her in, give her a deluge of kisses before saying “deer running”, and her call back “dog barking” in response. I am glad I have this little token of him. These are the ways our loved ones live on.