Although Martin Luther King Jr’s birthday does draw near, the title of this post is not related. Rather it refers to Charlie who, I like to believe, is once again free to run to his heart’s content. We had a hard night. It served to make our path more clear and this morning we drove Charlie to town and asked the emergency room vet to help him rest easy. Oddly, after calling the animal hospital, while talking to Steve about what they told me, Charlie lifted his head and looked at us, more alert than his recent usual. I said “Charlie, I know you hear us talking about this and now would be a good time to give us a sign what you want us to do.” Then he barked. Forcefully and repeatedly. It seemed a sign but of what? I tried giving him water. He declined, groaned and laid his head back down. Minutes later he barked his weaker bark, the one he’s been using to tell us he needs tending. I helped him up and opened the door to see if he wanted out. He did. He went down to the garden, peed and then laid down in the rain. He was very clear that this was where he wanted to be and he didn’t want to get up again. We didn’t make him. Instead we prepared to go. Steve carried him to the truck and into the hospital. When the vet administered the shot, there was hardly a change. His life force was so weak already, its leaving was almost imperceptible.

We drove home quietly. In tears.

It’s not quite noon but I think I just might get drunk.

… usually someone I love hurts too. This time it is our ever-so-beloved golden retriver, Charlie. He is almost 13 and we think he is dying. I don’t know whether it is worse when people tell me how lucky we are he has lived so long, or stories about how their dog lived to be 15 or 17 or whatever. However long he lives, it will be hard for us when he doesn’t. And tonight we are keeping vigil, watching over him and hating the terrible responsibility of deciding (or not) his fate. Right now he is sleeping and seems peaceful. We can almost pretend everything is fine.

It is still hard to accept that Joey and Midnight are gone, their memorials not even written. I think that it is time to tell their final stories.

Joey
Last May, laying in my lap on the floor in the vet’s office, looking into my father’s eyes and giving his face a final lick, Joey died. It wasn’t a hard decision to ask the vet to ease Joey’s suffering; his pain was terrible. The violent thrashing of his latest seizure had taken his arthritis pain over-the-top and meds no longer helped. The decision was easy; the loss was not. Even so, there were some lovely moments before Joey’s end. Despite his situation, Joey seemed to enjoy the car ride to the vet’s office and he looked, for all the world, like a king, quite smug and pleased with himself, as we carried him in to the vet’s office on his blanket-covered litter. The bond between Joey and my dad was special. Joey looked to dad for comfort, and dad was there. I am forever grateful.

Midnight
We’d been losing sleep worrying about Charlie’s illness when it became apparent that Midnight was sick too. He stopped eating. He started throwing up. Midnight and I had control issues right up until his end, late last October. I wanted him inside where we could care for him. He wanted to be out. I won that battle (he won all the rest) but I still wonder if I did right. I couldn’t bear the thought of him just going off to die, with us never knowing when he finally rested, or where. Blood tests showed total kidney failure and our dedicated vet came all the way to our house, early on a Sunday morning, to put Midnight to sleep. Midnight hated intervention and his final one was no exception. He still had some fight in him and he struggled; death didn’t come easy. Steve’s grief was large. I hope he rests easy somewhere, secure in his command, sharing his space and affections with only those of his choosing.