Sonja: Simply Me: A Peaceful Passing

My dog, Jack, died on July 22. He was just a few months shy of sixteen and for nearly all of those years, he was my beloved, best, four-legged friend.

Until today, I have been unable to write about it. It was too hard, still too recent. Just sitting down at the computer, knowing I was going to think about him, brought tears to my eyes. So I would walk away. But, today, for some reason, it feels okay.

And it's not that I don't still miss him, for I do. I still expect to see him lying on the couch whenever I return home. I still expect him to come sneaking into the kitchen whenever I slice cheese for my sandwich or cook bacon for breakfast. I still expect to see him snuggled up on his bed when I wake up in the morning. But these absences no longer bring me to my knees.

It's true: life goes on.

For people who've never been in love with a dog, (yes I said in love with a dog) my grief must seem exaggerated, foolish. For, surely, people don't love dogs. Not really love them. At least not the kind of love we associate with our partners, our children, our families.

But those people are wrong, so wrong. For when you find the right dog, the dog that fits so perfectly with you and your family, you are getting so much more than just a dog. You are getting a child, a best friend, an unconditional lover all rolled into one big, sweet, bundle of fur. And there is no other love like it.

And the only way to prove this to the naysayers out there, would be to suggest they go and get themselves a dog. And maybe, just maybe, if they're really lucky, they'll get one that's half as amazing as Jack.

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Jack joined our family on January 10, 1998. Way back when our little family was just beginning. We still lived in our first home. Anna was a just little, tow-headed four-year-old, Dave had way more hair, and I could still run for miles. It was a long time ago.

The minute we saw him, sitting in the cage at The Humane Society, smiling, happy, fur as white as paper, and already loving us with those big, brown eyes, we knew he was the one for us.

And for all his years with us, he was never bad. He never peed in the house. (Except for when he first moved in, but we just blamed that on his nerves and a new environment) And the only time(s) he ever threw up, followed a binging episode. But who could blame him? I've been known to overindulge on my children's holiday candy from time to time as well. He didn't get on the furniture, until he was pretty old and I deemed it necessary as, surely, the hard, wooden floors were painful on his sore, arthritic hips and back. Jack was just one good dog. A good, good dog. Except for the shedding. The extraordinarily, massive amount of shedding. But, hey, no one's perfect.

And all Jack ever asked of us, was to love him and to take him everywhere we went. And, so, of course, we did. Even though he didn't love riding in the car, preferring to lay on the floor at our feet rather than sit on the seat and watch the world whiz by, he went with us. During the day, he'd tag along with me as I ran errands to the grocery store, the post office. On weekends he'd accompany us to the coffee shop, sitting at our feet on sunny days, or waiting in the car when it rained.

But these weren't Jack's favorite places. He much preferred going to the ocean,

wading in the waters at Ocean Shores

or the mountains,

or on the boat.

Actually, he didn't love boating; but he went, because he loved me.

He even liked going to the races.

And he was always my biggest fan.

His favorite place, though, had to be the trails at Point Defiance Park. For there he was free. Free from leashes, (shh...don't tell anyone) free to run. Because running is what Jack did best. Running is what Jack loved.

Jack is actually running the trails near Sun Mountain in this picture
as I didn't usually bring my camera when we ran at Point Defiance

He loved the trails, the dirt. And if there was a mud puddle anywhere close by, he would find it and blaze right through it. Right through the deepest part of it. He loved bounding into the brush, disappearing from my sight all together, in pursuit of a squirrel, a chipmunk, or some smell recognizable only to him, only to reappear down the trail smiling, as if asking what took you so long?

And then, confident I was still on his tail he'd turn and be off again, feet barely hitting the ground. Leaping over fallen logs, jumping up and over rocks, with such ease, such grace. And he had an endurance that kept him going mile after mile, never tiring, never slowing.

Eventually, though, he did slow. And when that happened, we walked the trails. Until that became too much and we walked the neighborhood. Until that became too much and we played in the back yard. Until that became too much and we had to say goodbye. Which is what we did on July 22nd, with the help of Dr. Suzanne from Peaceful Passing.
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Dr. Suzanne arrived at our home at 10:30 a.m. with her box of medical supplies and her little bag of dog treats. She said hello to each of us and allowed me to hug her even though I'd never met her before. Then she sat down next to Jack who was "resting" on his green sleeping bag from Grandpa, said hello and told him what a beautiful, beautiful boy he was. And from then on, there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

She told us exactly what would happen, how long everything would take, and when she was satisfied that we were all ready, she began.

First, she injected Jack with a pain medication and a sedative to "make him very sleepy." This would take just a few minutes and afterward we were allowed to hug him, pet him, talk to him. Which we all did in turn. Even my Dad. Until he had to return to the couch and wipe his eyes and blow his nose with one of the bandannas he always has in his pocket.

Then she gave him the second, and final, injection. This one stopped his heart and his breathing and put him to sleep forever. And forever came very quickly. Within just seconds, it seemed, he was gone.

While she went to her truck to retrieve the gurney to remove his body, we all got one last moment alone with him. One last time to touch that soft white fur. One last time to kiss that sweet, black nose. One last time to look into his big, brown, eyes. One last time to tell him how much we loved him.

And then she was back. After she and Dave lifted him onto the gurney, I wrapped him up in the white blanket with the black paw prints. But I couldn't cover his face. So I asked her, "do I have to cover his face?" And she said "no, honey. You don't have to cover his face."

Then, in a procession of sorts, we all followed him out to her truck.

She assured me he wouldn't slip around and I gave him one last kiss, whispered goodbye buddy, and then we returned to the house to take care of the paperwork.

Then it was time for her to go. So I hugged her again, this woman I didn't know, thanked her for being with us on this very difficult day, and then she and Jack were gone.
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That was just over two months ago. Since then I have cried, a lot. And then less. We planted Jack's Tree and buried some of his ashes along with it. And now, whenever we come home, we all say "hi Jack." (I hope that isn't weird, but too bad if it is) And we are adjusting to life without him. We are still finding Jack Hairs from time to time. Those same hairs I cursed for almost sixteen years. And every time I spot one, I smile.

Dr. Suzanne has no idea I'm writing this post. I haven't spoken to her since I picked up Jack's ashes, which brought on a whole other set of tears. (Who knew how heavy a wooden box with the ashes of a sixty pound dog would weigh?) But I want to make sure people know about her, about the service she provides. I realize saying goodbye to your pet at home may not be for everyone. It might be too close, too hard. But, for us, it was the right thing.

Because he was at home, instead of in some cold, sterile exam room, Jack didn't even have to get up. He didn't have to be physically disturbed. I believe this helped make his passing calm, and completely without fear. And because the room was filled with everyone in the world who really loved him, I know he was at peace at the end.

As for Dr. Suzanne, we couldn't have asked for a better vet. She was kind, gentle, and just let us do what we needed to do, which was to cry, love our dog one last time, and love one other without making us feel rushed. For this I am truly grateful.