Click images for desktop size: "Evening Reflections" by Unknown Last night, at 7:02 p.m., my little blind dog passed away.
We'd been expecting him to die since Christmas. The six more months we had should seem a blessing. I wanted 600 more.
He seemed fine. His bronchitis seemed to be acting up a bit more the past 3 days and the thunderstorms were bothering him. He protected himself from the thunder by burrowing into my armpit.
About 2:30 yesterday he started drooling heavily. He seemed worried. He kept jumping into my lap. When we walked to check the mail he bumped into my leg a couple of times and didn't have his usual wiggle butt enthusiasm for the task.
We sat on the couch together for an hour or so. He cuddled hard against me, demanding pets.
At about 6:20 my friend got home. I left my little blind dog with her while I went out to mow the lawn. I had just finished when she came outside and told me the little guy had died. I went inside. He wasn't dead yet.
I petted him. He responded. He was cold so I wrapped him in my hoodie. He licked my hand but couldn't pull his tongue back into his mouth. It lolled out of his mouth. My friend got a little red velvet pillow for his head.
I had to close his blind eyes with my hands. He wheezed hard a few times. I tried to give him some of his vanilla ice cream but he had no idea it was there. A minute later he was gone.
I waited about five minutes trying to will him back to life. That never works but I always try.
I went out and dug him a grave in the backyard, behind a boulder there. His real favorite place was at the front gate, waiting for me to take him outside, or beside the car waiting to go for a drive, so he could smell all there was to smell.
My friend arranged him in a couple of pretty towels and wrapped him in my hoodie. I wanted to bury him in the hoodie. He liked it. Its Gortex lined and I think it will not disintegrate and it will keep him dry. He hated being wet.
The other three dogs cavorted while we buried him. I know I share that trait that wants to anamorphize animals, particularly during stressful times, but there's nothing wrong with thinking they were celebrating my little blind dog's life. They stayed unbidden by the grave the entire time.
I noticed what I always notice. Its life that identifies and makes something recognizable, life and the way it splashes against you. What's left is just a memory of something great.

Click images for desktop size: "Dark Day" by Benny The little dog followed me everywhere. He had bronchitis so I would always hear him behind me, huffing, sometimes angrily because he wanted me just to sit down and stay in one place. He was always underfoot. He told me jokes and demanded to be as close to me as he could at all times. He never was annoying.
We had a lot of great adventures together.
His bronchitis meant he would cough almost non stop. He woke us all the time with his coughing. I never minded that. I'd wake up sometimes because it was too quiet and he'd be pressed hard against me sleeping peacefully.
He had terrible allergies. They're what blinded him. They made him smell bad. When the spores were heavy in the air they turned his skin black. We made him wear clothes so he wouldn't look so bad and to stop the more disastrous effects of his non stop scratching.
He smelled terrible. Everything he laid on would soon smell just like him.
If he wanted up on the bed or onto the sofa he'd stand and bug me until I lifted him up, usually by his clothes. If I didn't move fast enough he'd turn into a red rocket and jump up as high as he could.
Sometimes he'd make it. Sometimes I'd have to catch him. He always acted like that was my job.
During the night I woke up several times thinking that I'd made a mistake and he was still out there alive. Half asleep I decided I'd take a zombie little blind dog if I couldn't have my little dog for real.
I tried to think of what I could have or shouldn't have done. I'm catholic. Catholics are always comfortable feeling guilty. Guilt is easier to deal with than grief. I know that. Guilt can be excused or justified but grief is just an empty pit that sucks parts of your soul away until you feel there's nothing left. There wasn't anything undone or anything that should have been done that wasn't.
I'll be in mourning for a while.
I'm still in the habit of looking under my office chair to make sure I don't run over him.
Trying to make sense of an empty space in my life. If you don't understand mourning a dog or if you say "It's just a dog," I'd never hear you say it. I wouldn't know you.
He was blind, he smelled bad, he coughed constantly, he was always underfoot. He always pushed his way to the front when I was handing out ice cream or cookies. He always laughed and got excited when we went out. He urinated in the house when he got scared.
I miss him. I loved him.
I guess he's another one I'll miss forever.
We were each other's best friend.
He waited until he could say goodbye to the people he loved and trusted. That takes guts I don't know if even I have.