There's a dog-shaped hole in my life today. Our old dog Lily had been declining for the last two years, more markedly in the last few months. Then last Friday when I came home from work, she was lying and sleeping in such a way that I thought she was dead - was relieved she had had the good grace to let go and not make us have to do "the hard thing" that all pet owners dread. Alas, she was just sleeping, but something had changed and clearly her health had leveled down yet another notch.
I started the conversation with my husband that evening - when would it be time? We thought we'd have more time - we just started a week of stay-cation, and he didn't want to make the call until after that. But by Saturday evening, not only would she eat nothing but treats, but her lips were weirdly swollen. Sadly, we decided Sunday would probably have to be the day, and with no miraculous rebound on Sunday morning, we made the arrangements and let our kids know what was coming.
Because our now-adult kids are the only reason we had Lily in the first place! My husband and I had always been happy to be a cat household. I had never really wanted a dog - they take so much more care and attention than cats! You can't just leave your dog home by itself while you go away for a weekend... But our two kids had wanted a dog, and we finally couldn't put them off any longer. So in 2004, when our kids were 11 & 13 and right after we got back from an early-summer vacation, we went puppy shopping and became dog people.
Like all of our pets, Lily was a rescue, an adorable little boxer-spaniel mix. We had plenty of space for her in our hearts, but I'm finding it surprising just how much space we made for her in our lives. There's the place in the kitchen where we put her kennel and food bowls. The space in our bedroom where her night bed was located. The rug I kept at the entry to the living room so her dirty dog feet wouldn't leave too much grime on the carpet when she came inside. The collection of dog throw-toys permanently residing on our front porch. Changing what sort of trashcans we used inside. Getting so used to layers of dog-nose slime on all the windows that it was barely noticeable to us.
We rearranged our home and our lives so very much to accommodate Lily. But, we all loved her and (except after her most disgusting doggie escapades) enjoyed her presence and her antics. Dogs just require so much more care and attention than cats that they really are quite a different experience.
And this dog, this Lily, was the only one my husband and I will have. She was the dog of our kids, the dog who saw our family through middle and high school. The dog who was such a big part of what was missed about home by our kids when they went off to college and then out on their own. She was the one who still lived "at home" even after our nest was otherwise emptied of our kids. And now she's gone, too.
It truly is the end of an era for us. And I had no idea it would quite so painful.
We've known for close to two years that Lily's time was getting short. She started having seizures, and I never in my wildest dreams expected to still be filling her prescriptions almost two years later. But she just kept on ticking.... She had reached the point where we couldn't in good conscience consider taking her to a boarding kennel if we wanted to take a vacation. And none of our kids were available any more to just stay with her. I grieved some after that first seizure, and as the time since then lengthened, I started making (surely crass-sounding) comments about wishing Lily would not wake up some day soon so we'd be able to go on vacation. Month by month she was becoming, both mentally and physically, so much less than the dog she had been in her prime. Surely two years of watching her waste away would make her final departure more bearable.
I was wrong.
I expected the trip to the vet to be awful. It was. Just making the decision is gut wrenching enough (we've been through this a number of times before with cats), but taking her there - walking her in - watching her sniffing everything as she doddered around the office made it that much harder to be confident that we really truly had made the right choice. (We really truly did.)
I didn't expect coming home to be quite so bad, though. Because overt reminders of Lily were still everywhere: her kennel, her bed, her toys, her food. There won't be another dog to fill her pawprints - we're back to being just cat people - so all those things needed to be tossed or gotten rid of. The crate collapsed. The bed discarded. Areas cleaned. Open areas appeared that Lily had occupied until an hour ago. Cleaning, discarding, and crying is mostly what we did that terrible Sunday.
Now it's a day later. The tears aren't quite so ready or quite so copious. The overt reminders aren't so noticeable. But I did open the fridge to find a partly used can of dog food we'd overlooked. And I realized I hadn't noticed the state of the windows yesterday, so spent some time with the Windex. But mostly today I notice the absence of her presence. She was always doggie on the spot - always trailing after me whenever I moved from one place to another in the house. This morning I missed hearing her collar jangle as she came back upstairs after her morning pottie call. I missed her laying nearby when I got on the treadmill this morning. I missed seeing her dog bed on our bedroom floor. Unexpectedly, my husband was up and out of bed earlier than I would have expected on vacation - but he had been doing most all of the doggie-duties of late and was feeling too sad and uneasy to just lay in bed.
There's a dog-shaped hole in our lives these days. Right now the edges of that hole are jagged and bleeding, painful and easily aggravated. I know that in time those edges will heal, we'll recollect Lily fondly and without the tears. But that dog-shaped hole will remain in our hearts forever - a well-loved and treasured "scar," a token of Lily's 16 years with us.
