"...love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." Kahlil Gibran
Beloved Noodle,
You left us on February 1, 2013, after a meal of cat food,
chicken thighs and a snack of…chicken thighs, of course.
We like to think that your last moments on this plane were
happy ones. You were lying on the kitchen floor, in front of the cat tree, your
head on your little fuzzy giraffe blanket and you were happy that the herd was
together, everybody within your sight. You had just walked and eaten a big
breakfast with hardly any dry food in it. You had gone outside one last time to
preside over the lake and it seemed to us that you looked wistfully over
everything, as if you wanted to take one last picture with you.
And now, you were just dozing, not completely asleep, but
relaxing, because the world was just the way it should be.
We took some pictures of you. Sleeping, looking around. Dirk
says you gave him one really hard look even though you never liked to look
people directly in the eye. I mean, what self-respecting dog likes that anyway?
But I believe Dirk when he says you did.
This morning, your last morning, you woke up and did not
want your very soft breakfast cookie. You walked very slowly with us and we
felt that it was hard on you. You did not sniff much, did not mark and patrol
to make sure that the neighborhood was safe. It occurs to me now that you did
not do the thing that confounded one of your pet sitters so much that she
thought we had mistakenly said that you were a boy when really you were a girl,
namely lift your leg when doing your business. Yes, you did the ladylike thing
sometimes, but often you would just go boy-style and you would do it so well.
After our walk you had to rest in the living room first,
even though we were in the kitchen, your favorite hang-out spot, preparing your
meal. You did come eventually but had to lie down until the food was set down.
When you ate (and you did eat everything) it was done slowly, in businesslike
fashion.
And then you were lying on the kitchen floor. Not because we
wanted you to. We would have wanted you on a soft, fluffy bed but it was your
choice, even though your tummy was freshly shaved and we could see your bare
skin, pink with black spots, so soft and smooth.
We did rub your tummy. Who could resist? And we know you
enjoyed it, closing your eyes in bliss and breathing deeply and evenly. I
played guitar for you even though you could hardly hear anything. But you had
always, always, come when I was playing, even before you became so deaf that
you would disregard our: No! No cat food! and just go ahead and eat it anyway. Or
maybe you heard us but you just knew that your time on this earth was limited.
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do and that goes doubly so for a lab. I
like to think that you, seeing me playing, just meant that everything was o.k. and
that everyone was happy and content.
You see, we had been crying so much the day before and also
that very morning that we wanted to try to give you a feeling of normalcy. You always
worried about us and the cats when you felt that something was amiss and we did
not want you to worry in your last hours. Not about us anyway.
Then the doorbell rang and we knew that it was time to say
goodbye to you. You, the people dog, did not get up to greet the person coming
in, even though you had always done so (It could have been pizza delivery!).
And you did not wag your tail when the very nice lady came in and petted you. You
just let her do it. We want to think that you were ready to leave and you just
communicated it to us the only way you could, telling us that you were so tired
and exhausted and sick. Not that you ever really let on. Even in your suffering
and your disease you were subtle and graceful and so strong, too strong for
your own good. Maybe you tried to be strong for us. You were such a loving,
calming presence.
You did not flinch when you got an injection that was
supposed to make you sleepy because you were busy eating your snack of chicken.
And you finished it even though you were getting so tired and your eyes so
heavy. With the three of us stroking your soft fur you fell asleep. It was
supposed to take longer, but we think you just felt worn out and welcomed the
deep sleep that we bestowed on you as a last gift.
We felt your steady heartbeat one last time, so strong and
slow and true. And then you left.
We had you with us one more hour, to say goodbye. You were
so peaceful, your body still warm and you looked as if you were still alive.
But your heartbeat was gone and we did not hear your deep, rhythmic breathing
that we always found so soothing when you were sleeping next to our bed. And it
was terribly, terribly sad.
Your body left our house covered in a beautiful soft
blanket, your head rested on your giraffe pillow, accompanying you on your last
journey. No toys, you were never fond of them. If it was not edible, you just
did not care for it and so we sent you away with the things you would have
taken if we had left it to you and with a full stomach.
We cried the rest of the day. And the next. And we still do.
The first day we took away your bed in our bedroom and
washed your food bowl one last time. We could not bear to look at it. We let
our friends and family know that you had left. We took a walk through the
neighborhood, so awful, you not with us. But we visited all your places.
That day was very hard and we did not know what to do with
ourselves, especially not in the evening when we normally would have walked
you. We almost forgot to feed the cats because you all had shared dinner time.
The next day started early, very early. We could not stay in
bed, something that we had sometimes longed for, especially when it was raining
hard outside. But we would have felt like traitors had we slept in.
Our last thought in the night had been of you and our first
thought in the morning was of you, too. And the pain in our hearts, pain that
sleep took away for a few hours, started fresh and anew and intensely again.
That day, Saturday, we went around the house, crying heavy
tears. We took your leashes of the hallway clothes tree, removed your towels,
your potty bags, your treats. We took all your other beds. You were a dog much
loved and since you had many places to sleep, you had many beds as well.
We took the toys you never played with, the bone you only
chewed on a few times. It was not edible. We removed the pet gate that kept you
from eating all the cat food. We realized that we did not have to have food in
the cat tree anymore since no one would take it now. We took your rain coat
that you wore but were never happy about. We took your fuzzy wrap that we had
fashioned for you because your tummy was shaved and it was cold outside. You did
not favor it but it was as minimal as it could be as far as clothing was
concerned and still keep you warm at the same time.
We took your leashes out of the car. Your medications off
the counter and out of the laundry room.
We removed the liverwurst from the fridge, the only way you
would swallow your bitter pain meds.
I erased the reminders for your heartworm and flea meds from
my Google calendar.
We wrote to the vet.
We responded to the many friends that you had made and took
comfort in their kind words.
All your food, all your snacks. So much food, so many
snacks. The hard biscuits you would not or could not eat anymore. We could not
bear to look at them.
You traveling bed, your traveling dishes.
We did not throw anything away. That, we could not do. We just
collected it all in the garage, and there it is, for now.
We did select a few things for us to keep. Your dog tags.
Your favorite leash, purple with flowers on it, with just the right amount of
girliness that it still preserved your dignity of being a big black lab. The
chewed on dog bone. Your favorite food dish.
We did not wash the big towel that covered your dog bed. It still
smelled so much like you.
We went for a walk, your favorite walk. We always knew all
was well when on weekend mornings, without fail, you would herd us to the
garage so we could take you to the Indian Creek greenway, your place. You never
did it on weekdays, you were smart about that.
The rain started as we parked the car and that seemed
appropriate to us. We walked your favorite walk, the one you could not do anymore in
the last year. We visited the field in search of the holes you dug hunting for
mice and moles. We only managed to find one. It may have been yours or not. To
us, it counted. We talked about the time when you caught a baby rabbit and ate
it. You were so proud. I had to call Dirk so we could bring you home, because
you just refused to leave the spot where you found it. Many walks after that
you would always check for more.
When we came home we framed a picture of you that one of your
pet sitters, a talented photographer, had taken. You were smiling, or at least,
it looked to us as if you were.
We reminisced.
So many stories, so many happy memories.
You, rolling around and pumping your legs into the air,
covered in hay, sliding down the hill on your back.
You, running 8 minute miles, because you had to catch me
when I was running by. In your universe, the herd could not be allowed to
separate. No way.
You, pointing, when you saw a squirrel.
You, on the one long car trip to Virginia we took, despite
your tendency to become violently car sick. You spent some happy days with
snow, cats and deer and lots of food. Family celebrations were your favorite
and you loved to lie in the most inconvenient spot, so everyone had to walk
around you.
You, stealing food. A whole cake. A whole Enchilada
casserole. Yes, you really did eat the whole enchilada, and you took no prisoners. Lots of cat
food bites. It never made you sick, just happy.
You, acing obedience, as long as the treats kept coming.
Otherwise, not so much.
We could fill pages after pages with happy moments and
memories.
We do not want to forget. We want to hurt. We feel we owe
you that much.
We do not want to sleep in.
We do not want to order pizza or bring home Five Guys. We do
not want to eat cheese. You begged so mercilessly for these foods, your
favorites.
You always had a bit of a weight problem.
You were our first and you will always be that.
We will scatter your ashes and it will be a hard thing to do.
We will find a perfect morning and the herd will be together. We will celebrate
your memory. We will cry.
When you first came to us you healed us from a hurt that we
found difficult to overcome. Now, that you have left, you have left us with a
hurt that is even bigger.
The house is so quiet.
We hope that your life energy and your spirit are still somewhere.
We want you to know that you were much loved.
Rest well, sweet girl.
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