Two Years

Dear Mickey,

I can’t believe it’s been two years, now, since you went away. At times it seems like just yesterday that I had to take you to see Dr Mike for one last time; other times it seems like several lifetimes ago. No matter the length of time, I can honestly say that having to let you go, missing you… neither has gotten very much easier. Sure, maybe a little bit; but not much. I still am unable to clean your nose prints off of the sliding glass door. I have your collar and leash still in its same spot by the front door of the apartment as if it’s just a matter of time until I need to take you for a walk again.

I found one of your favorite things the other day when looking for something else. Oh, how you loved the Chew-Lota “bones,” and if I didn’t use a hammer and screwdriver to break one into thirds you’d bloat yourself, gorging on the entire thing. One of my greatest joys with you — one of the so, so many — was the once per month or so when I would say to you, “D’ya wanna Chew-Lota?” and you would bark three or four times while practically knocking yourself over from spinning around in circles all the way to the cupboard where I kept them. You would go after that bone with such enthusiasm that you’d have to stop every now and again to just pant because you’d worked yourself up into a sweat by chewing and gnawing and licking. If I got up to go to the bathroom or went to lie down for a while, you would bring the Chew-Lota with you, not letting it (or me) out of your sight. I don’t even try to recollect just how many times I was unable to take a nap because you were right next to me on the bed, going after that bone. And what I wouldn’t give to have you keeping me awake again.

We were a great team, Mickey, you and I. The intense connection between us was immediate even though you had a “thing” about guys (especially ones in baseball caps or wearing hoodies). From the second Pam brought you into the apartment I shared with your other dad, K, you ran across the room, jumped onto the couch, into my lap, and proceeded to twist around and lean your back up against my chest so that I could begin rubbing your tummy. I rubbed that tummy seemingly constantly for the next twelve and a half years, too, didn’t I? You never got enough of that, that’s for sure!

That connection, that amazing love we shared was so far beyond almost everyone else’s understanding, wasn’t it? We really, truly understood each other, much more than a usual pet/owner relationship. I took a lot of ribbing (and some very harsh criticism) over the years because people didn’t seem to “get” that we truly had conversations. You had a pretty big vocabulary for words and tones and inflections. And your facial expressions were so, well, expressive. But it was deeper than that. We had a psychic connection to each other, a way of communicating which can be likened only to a real, out-loud conversation. I have had that link with animals in the past. I was tested on it a kazillion years ago when I worked for a vet here in Santa Fe. The vets and techs would have me come into the treatment room to spend time with the dog or cat (or iguana, believe it or not!) to see if I could “guess” what was going on with them. It wasn’t guessing, and I was pretty close or right on many, many times. It was because I was in tune with the particular animal, and it in tune with me. I don’t mean to sound all woo-woo and shit… it just was what it was.

But never, EVER had I encountered an animal with as strong of a emotive connection with me, at least not until you came into and saved my life. We saved each other, huh? That first day when you came to me I thought we’d be lucky if you lasted the week. Your collar was so tight you could hardly swallow, so we cut it off. You were emaciated, scared, anxious, and so trusting of me that I knew right then and there that if something ever happened to you I’d lose my shit. Even after having you for a week, taking you to the humane society to have you spayed was traumatic for you as well as for me. Our link to each other was so powerful that the thought of leaving you there overnight, of not having you next to me all the time for the next thirty-six or so hours, cut so deeply that I pretty much wept the entire time until we were able to bring you home. I knew then, way back then, that when it came time to help you end your physical life, I would probably have to be sedated and, maybe, committed. And the first part was true; that day, I was prescribed a lot of sedative. It didn’t help, though, because the feeling of loss was stronger than anything chemically induced. I still feel the same way, too, definitely every day… and, more often, many times during the day.

We humans have a problem when it comes to having to ease our animals to sleep: Did I wait too long? Did I do it too soon? I’ve gone over and over that these past couple of years and came to one conclusion: as with our beloved Marbles (over whom you grieved for a long time… remember?), I asked you to let me know when you were done, when it was time to let go. And you did. You did, baby girl! I watched you slow down a lot those last six months, but you were still okay. It was only about the last few weeks that your arthritis pain had gotten really bad. We adjusted, getting you a couple of Potty Patches for the balcony because it had become so hard on you to get to the ground level and outside. It was even more difficult coming back because you’d be spent after your walk and would stop a couple of times on the way back from the elevator to our apartment, just to rest. You couldn’t jump up onto the bed or couch anymore and seemed embarrassed to be picked up and placed down. Those last few days you looked really sad and tired, and I knew it was time. The last full day your back end just dropped as you walked around the apartment, stabbing me in the chest because I knew that that time had to be, basically, right then.

So we had as much fun as we could for the rest of that day and evening, didn’t we? You didn’t really run to play anymore, but you got hours upon hours of tummy rubbin’ and doggy-sages (you LOVED it when I gave you a massage, huh?). We hung out on the balcony so you could soak up a bit of sunshine. And in the evening you got an entire Chew-Lota! The look on your face was really funny because you hadn’t had a whole one in so many years. Maybe I’m doing a wishful-thinking deal; but I swear it seemed as if you were about to pop with joy at getting the whole one again. You even stopped for a second, just long enough to do one of the things you somehow learned to do over the past few years: you high-fived me! I loved it when you’d get happy or excited or have a good walk and would give me some skin! After that high-five you returned to the task at hand. It took you several hours to work through that entire bone, and your little tummy was tight as a drum afterward. But you were happy, maybe the pain going away a little bit because of your joy. Soon after, it was time to go to bed. I don’t think either one of us really slept that last night. As usual, you were next to me on the bed. In cooler weather you would grab onto my leg, wrapping your little paws around it as if holding on for dea

r life. Other times, and especially when it was warm, you wanted to be a little ways away because of the heat. But you still had to be touching me, even if just barely with the tip of your paw. And, something which never changed and was required each and every night: I had to hold your paw or you couldn’t fall asleep.

The next morning, July 1st two years ago, I knew I had to take you to the vet first thing. The longer I put it off that day, the more I’d not do it at all. That wouldn’t have been fair to you. Even when Dr. Mike came into the very beautiful room they have there for those times, with the nice couch and all, he could tell that you were done. He commented that normally when he’d enter the room, you would immediately perk up while being on alert, watching his every move. That morning, you didn’t even lift up your head when he came into the room, but rather just moved your eyes to watch him. I’ll forever feel guilty for not being able to hold you when it was happening. But I didn’t want to see you for the last time with the catheter in to inject the drug into your vein more easily. I didn’t want to see you with anything on or with you that wasn’t part of you, you know? So for the first time, ever, in all of my years of having to have animals put down, I had to leave you there and not hold you until the end. Dr. Mike assured me that you wouldn’t be getting stressed out, having to wait in a kennel until he had time to do it; he was going to do it right away. You were probably gone before I got my car started to leave. You knew what was happening as I left you in Dr Mike’s arms, and you let me know you were fine with it, that you were ready. As he walked away with you I cupped your little head in my hands and kissed you on your forehead. At least I think I did, for, as is the same right now, my eyes were floodgates opened. You gave me a little lick on my hand and we went apart from each other. I’m haunted by the last look, which I didn’t intend to have happen. The door leaving that special part of the vet’s office sticks so I had to turn around and sort of butt it open. Dr Mike didn’t have you all the way through the door into the back where it was going to be done, and you and I made eye contact. God, even now I’m sobbing, thinking of that loving, trusting, maybe even thankful look on your face.

I tried to go home, tried to get into the apartment. But right when the door opened I could feel the emptiness, the void left by your sweet soul. My knees buckled and I knew what I had to do. I have been blamed of being callous for what some people perceive as my not allowing time to grieve, because I was back home with Popcorn less than three hours later. You loved kitties, so I am sure you approved, especially because she was in her last eighteen hours due to being considered “unadoptable.” She needed me; I needed her. I think maybe in some way you sent her to me. I’m sure that’s reaching, wishful thinking. All I know is that getting her in no way took even one bit of the grief away. It did give me something else to focus on, maybe distract myself now and then. But I’ve never, ever gotten over having to let you go. I don’t know that I ever will.

Mickerdoo, I can’t thank you enough for everything you and I shared. You were my one, single source of unconditional love and I was that for you, too. Our bond is almost indescribably even though I’ve tried to write about it here. I know you’re around from time to time because I feel you on the bed with me. I can tell when you and Popcorn are playing. I’m glad you are, because at first, whenever you’d show up (in spirit form), Popcorn would hiss and leave the room. Now she’s, like, “What up, dude?” and you two seem to have a great time together. I’m sure some are rolling their eyes over me talking about you being here in spirit. I don’t see you, but I can feel you next to me on the bed or the couch, when you come around. And I’m pretty sure I’ve smelled you a time or two (especially the time it took me a while to realize that what I was smelling was wet dog fur and bird shit… oh, how you loved to roll in bird shit!).

I’m hoping that, by writing this, I’ll experience some catharsis over your loss. I’ve been working really hard in therapy now since this anniversary date has been coming up. It’s not any easier yet. And I am in no way trying to lessen the impact you have had on my life, nor to forget anything about you. I’m just trying to make the pain, less. I don’t know that it will ever be so. I love you, boo-boo-butt, and thank you for the wonderful life we shared together, AND for the continuing visits although they are less frequent of late. I’ll have many more animal connections in my life, but I doubt one will ever be anything nearly as close as the bond you and I had/have. I wish I could be with you, but I apparently still have things to do here. I’ll be there one day, though, huh? I don’t give a shit about the people in my life, but I DO hope I get to spend eternity with you.

I love you, Mickey. You’re a great dog!

Mickey with her Chew-Lota!!!