It has been nearly three months since October 21. And in all of that time, I have been unable to bring myself to write about Molly's death. I keep thinking about it; she deserves a proper post. But in so many ways, writing about it makes final-final. That I have processed my feelings enough to sum them up here. And I don't think I have.
Our little Mo died on an otherwise-beautiful October afternoon. I'm sure everyone in Minnesota was remarking what a beautiful day it was as I sat on the couch and ticked away the minutes stroking her meringue-fur belly and heavy, silky ears, knowing the time was coming where I would force myself to get off the couch, get in the car with William, and I would betray her by bringing her to vet, where we would have our last snuggle, forever and ever, amen.
Mo long had a heart murmur; we knew that. We knew what would eventually come. Her heart would become too big for her chest, or it would fill with fluid, or any other variety of things. We had been told. But her last few checkups had been great, and I had suspected nothing. Right when we moved, she developed a cough; completely unrelated, the vet strongly promised, to the second-story fall she suffered the day we moved. (Just a sprained paw was all the damage done that day to my little blind baby, who was just trying to find us among the hustle-bustle of the move; little did I know the worst was yet to come, and sooner than later. I kill myself over thinking about that unnecessary suffering.) I kept thinking the vet was maybe a
little wrong; maybe her ribs were bruised or something was jostled and irritated, and that the cough would go away.
A couple of vet visits later, and it was confirmed that the early signs of congestive heart failure were all there; that the normally black, clear void that showed as her lungs on the X-ray indeed looked laced with smoke. I could see it. The vet was very optimistic. She said this was treatable; many dogs lived with it with no ill effects to speak of, for years. I sobbed at the table despite her repeated insistence that this was not a surprise and nothing to get too excited over.
Don't they say moms "just know?"
We began courses upon courses of medications, some more expensive than others, and we gave up sleeping at night because her cough intensified then and could be heard throughout the house. William and I took turns sleeping on the couch for the very small bit of relief it allowed. For weeks this persisted, coupled with late-night discussions with our ever-faithful vet, who promised our options were not exhausted—yet. But I knew better. We were just rotating around without any relief for Molly, nothing that really quieted her cough—instead, the diuretic just made it hard for her to control her urine. Her accidents seemed to cause her no end of shame, even as we pet and soothed her that it wasn't her fault, that we knew she was such a good girl.
So then, the day I found out that there was nothing more our vet could do did not come as a surprise, and maybe it came with a little relief to know we had absolutely, positively exhausted every option out there. It wasn't just the congestive heart failure, after all; that had gotten much better. It was another, uncurable thing: Her trachea was collapsing in two places. Vets can administer steroids for relief, but unfortunately, it would intensify her heart condition. The vet looked as though she might cry when she told me. "It sucks, this is really shitty." Her hands fluttered uselessly after she delivered the news. She told me to schedule the appointment when we were ready. She said, "I'd feel confident doing it today if William were here." And she did me the kindness of telling me Molly "seemed tired." A gentle nudge: Soon. I heard her loud and clear. I went home and told William—we hadn't really anticipated that this particular appointment would be The Last One, so I had gone alone. I told him I couldn't make the call, I just couldn't, but I also couldn't have the cloud hanging over my head; the spectre of making the phone call, the knowledge that she might truly be suffering despite her sunny disposition. So my brave husband did what I could not; he scheduled the appointment as soon as possible. "What should I say?" he asked, phone to his ear as it rang. I was speechless. Finally, I said, "Maybe just tell them it's time for us to say goodbye." The code.
We stopped feeding her dog food. We fed her hamburger and rice, and she even snared a taco off the coffee table one night while my back was turned (I must emphasize this was not a dog that
seemed sick otherwise, which made this whole decision about dying harder) and she wagged her nub for all it was worth, even though she choked as she ate. I worried needlessly about the onions in the guacamole.
We would randomly hit the icemaker button on the refrigerator, so that it felt like it was snowing desserts—she loved ice cubes so much, and she would come running. We gave her all the treats and yogurt she could eat. We snuggled her and told her we loved her. The two nights before we said goodbye we had a cast of visitors, who came to give her a last treat and pet and keep our spirits up as time ticked down (we were endlessly thankful for the celebration of life, not mourning of death, and for keeping our minds off the clock). She had made quite an impression on everyone in her four short years with us.
Her appointment was scheduled at the end of a Friday afternoon. We spent the day with her, taking her through the McDonald's drive-thru for a McDouble and fries. We walked in the park and took some photos—they turned out beautifully. In some of them, she appears to be smiling. I would swear to you she was happier that day than she had been in weeks. Did she know?
We took the long way to the vet's office, prolonging the inevitable but also giving her a chance to take an extra-long car ride with her head out the window (another one of her favorites). When we got there, they quickly and compassionately dispatched us to The Goodbye Room. They took her and hooked her up to an IV, returned with a clay imprint of her paw, with instructions to bake it when we got home, to make it permanent. They laid blankets and a little potty pad across my lap just in case, then gingerly set her down, a purple bandage wrapped around the IV, her little Muppet fur displacing itself around the edges.
It was so hard, that moment, but she was so docile and settled right in. It's like she had given herself over to the process. Like she accepted it more than we did. I have to believe she knew and she was ready. She was not agitated or fearful. She was so, so, so tired. I have to believe that she thought it was the right thing. That she understood that we had done everything we possibly could; endured as many sleepless nights as we could; paid as many vet bills as we could. I have to believe that she knew that if we could have made it any other way, we would have. We would have moved mountains.
The vet came in. Not our usual vet, but she spoke highly and sincerely of Molly, as though she knew her. It helped. I thanked her for doing such a shitty job—and she reminded us this was in fact the absolute best thing we could do and that she was happy to provide relief. And that we could take as much time as we needed right now.
But we could not stop time and I was a flight risk. I wanted to hike her twenty, fluffy pounds under my arm like a football and win the Heisman running out of that office. I saw myself bounding down the stairs in my mind, one arm out, fur flying. Instead, William and I gave the go-ahead.
I was really glad my sister told me this before we went, and so I will share it with you, in the sad knowledge that some of you may need it sometime: It is a very peaceful moment and the process itself is nothing to fear. The vet administered the drug slowly through a syringe, and, honestly, I could not tell when Molly left us. She never stirred. We cried, but silently—she hated tears. (No, really, she would pace when I cried, and literally wipe my face her her paws.) We murmured all the sweet nothings we always said to her. We held her until the vet assured us that she was gone. (I'll never forget, she said, so kindly, "Her heart is so big, it is taking a little longer for it to stop," as she felt around with her stethoscope. And, oh, how I ached knowing she suffered in her last weeks on Earth, but yet I reveled in the idea that her heart was so big with love.) Her heavy limbs were draped on mine and over William's; she was still warm. I would have sworn to you she was sleeping, like any other afternoon. I wasn't afraid to touch her after she was gone. To me, she was still there. I had to walk out and I tried not to look back. But I did. The vet was cradling her sweetly in her arms. I forced myself down the stairs and out the door.
You guys, saying goodbye to a beloved pet, my sweet Momo, was one of my biggest fears. She was my girl, our girl, our first dog together, our first love outside ourselves together, our first. I can't remember our relationship before her, it seems. I used to panic thinking of her end days. When we got her, she was scared, she had been alone and abused for years; she didn't even know how to play or what to do with toys. The broom made her cower, and sometimes if William stood up too fast she skittered away. By the end of our time with her, she took naps on his chest while he watched football. She never trembled when we opened the closet door. She was our shadow, our family. Loyal and loving, a true companion and master negotiator and peacemaker. She probably saved our marriage a time or two; she hated when we were at odds with each other and she often made the first move when we'd retreated to our corners, as if to say "Enough is enough, just apologize already so we can get back to food and snuggling." She was all the noble things a dog should be, and we loved her unconditionally, and there is no doubt in my mind she loved us back, wholeheartedly and without reserve.
We left the office, and the sun was streaming through the windshield. We drove down the freeway and this Low song was on the radio:
You stretch your wings
You take a breath
You hide your feet
Embrace your head
A tragedy, no there's never enough
You try to sleep
But you never wake up
Try to sleep
but you never wake up
No you never wake up
It gave me chills, the timing of that song. We spent the evening trying to run away from that drowning sadness. Avoided going home to a house without her. William bought me a little rose-gold band with a tiny little pink-sapphire heart atop it. To remember her by.
And the other things I will remember: her face peeking up over the edge of our bed once she knew we were awake for the day; her tightrope-walking routine to get our attention as she edged along the bed; her crazy, crosswise walk outside; her fat, squishy paws that smelled like caramel corn and Fritos and vacuum dust; her love of her stuffed bunny, Bun-Buns, who she would lovingly fake-bite, shake by its neck, then take a nap on every time we came home; her sunny-side-up naps on the couch; and how she snored and ran and dug and ate in her sleep; how she would get up on the couch before I could even sit down, ready for attention whether I could give it or not; her nose snorting underneath the door while I was in the bathroom. Her devotion to the pursuit of food. Her nub-tail immediately wagging in agreement to everything I said. The sweetness that everyone felt about her; that made everyone fall in love with her. That she was ours. So distinctly and loyally and wonderfully ours.
She was meant to be with us. I will remember the door opening as we were about to leave the Humane Society empty-handed and there she burst through the door with the cold sunlight, panting and cute as a button. And our arms raised up together to point at her. It was January 23, and if she were still with us, she would be about to celebrate her 13th birthday (we think). As dog "rescuers" will say: Who rescued who?
She was it. She was our divine intervention.
Our bestest girl in the whole wide world. God. We miss her so.
