Well, apparently attempt number two at blogging didn't go too great, as I haven't posted in over 4 1/2 years. Sorry about that. I've actually meant to resume this blog, or something, in the past year or so, as I haven't been working, save for some eBay sales activity, and wanted to get back in the habit of writing in some form. Aside from a few capsule reviews on Letterboxd, though, that hasn't happened. But right now I find myself in need of expressing my feelings a bit, so today I return to this blog, for take-two at blogging redux. I will apologize in advance, this is more for my benefit that for public consumption. Of course you are welcome to read it, but unless you're really chomping at the bit to read about my dead dog, you are certainly under no obligation to do so.
So, yes, that is why I'm writing this, to express my sadness at the passing of my dog Maverick. The reality of pet ownership is that this is an experience you have to face from time to time, given the relative life spans of people and most domestic animals (I suppose that is one point in favor of the tortoise as a pet). And certainly, with a senior citizen pet, you know it's probably going to come up sooner rather than later, and it's hard to completely extinguish the occasional stray thought wondering just how the final act is going to play out. But nothing can completely prepare you for when it happens. Especially in this case, when the death was unexpected. Maverick was panting heavily, the heat clearly getting to him (this was late Friday afternoon, which I think turned out to be the peak of this heat wave, the weekend temperatures being slightly less than anticipated), and he seemed to be having trouble walking, like his hind leg was bothering him (he had fatty growths on his hind regions, and the one was finally getting to the point where it affected his mobility). I picked him up and took him into my bedroom, with the A/C cranked up, and I rested with him in the cool air for 45 minutes or so, as his panting quickly receded and his breathing became less labored. As he seemed to be resting quietly, I left for about ten minutes to eat dinner. When I came back, he was dead. I've never had a dog just die like that before, and it was a very unsettling experience. When I first walked into the room, I was relieved to see he was resting peacefully, but then realized he didn't seem to be breathing. I attempted to get him to wake up, to sit up, but it soon became clear he was no longer with us. I told Mom and she came in to see him, and I brought Missy in to see her brother. I hoped that would help her process that he was gone, but she seemed oblivious to her brother's condition, and soon bounded out of the room as is her want (they don't like being closed in in my bedroom or the back den, which is why they hadn't been in the air conditioning much that day). Fairly quickly, I picked up Maverick and put him in the car, and took him to the emergency vet hospital, to arrange cremation (I'd never had a dog die at home, so I wasn't quite sure what to do). Before long, they brought a gurney out for Maverick, I said one last goodbye, and headed home alone.
I got Maverick and Missy a bit over seven years ago, at the age of seven, nearly eight. They were from a shelter, a family had to give them up because of a military reassignment, and the shelter wanted to place them together, given their age and attachment to one another. Tanner had recently died from cancer at the age of nine, and I knew dogs of that age still had a lot of life in them, barring disease. We soon found they were quite unusual dogs, Missy in particular. But Maverick, for all his quirks, and his sometimes destructive nature (keeping him out of the trash was a constant struggle, with him once ripping a child-proof look off the wall), was the sweet one; that is to say, Maverick was the one that was demonstrative of affection as you would expect from a dog, the one who runs to see you, gives you kisses, or his favorite, a good head nuzzling. After a nice greeting, he was a bit more standoffish that I was used to, but not as much as Missy. They both want their space, but Maverick never wanted too much space. He wouldn't cuddle up with you (except at night), but he would want to be in eyeshot of you, and would follow you (well, Mom, usually, but me if she wasn't available) from room to room if you moved about the house. Especially in his last year or so, he wasn't particularly active--these were never dogs who did a great deal (they showed almost no interest in toys, for instance, especially Maverick). But he was a presence, he was always there, and it meant more to me than I realized until now.
And now, not quite 48 hours later, I am still processing this loss. As I said, I'd never had a dog die so suddenly. He was old, with health problems, but most of my experiences with death have been long, sometimes drawn-out experiences, and in the case of my dogs they have ended with euthanasia, usually after chronic health problems have played out over months (Tanner's illness was relatively quick, and it was a shock that it soon turned fatal, but he had had a diminished appetite for about a month, never a good sign in a beagle). To walk into a room where I was lying with Maverick not ten minutes earlier, listen to his breathing become less labored, and find a corpse, was not a pleasant experience. He did look peaceful, his eyes clear, lying in the same position I left him in (though he did soil the bed, an unpleasant counterpoint to that image of peacefulness). But I remember the feeling of helplessness I felt, and the denial, the thought that if I got him to the vet quickly enough they could help him. Once I picked up his limp body, any delusions of that sort quickly gave way, but the result was still that I rushed him to the vet a bit more quickly than I would have liked; If I had it to do again, I would have taken him out to his favorite spot on the couch, laid him out and said my goodbyes with a more deliberate pace (I did have some time at the vets waiting for them to come out with the gurney; they asked if I wanted a room to say goodbye, and I declined, though I regret that decision a bit).
I have always felt the way we mourn our pets is as much about human mortality as it is the animal's. This was most obvious to me when Mom had Mandy put to sleep, which turned out to happen about six months before my father died. I probably wept harder for Mandy than I did for my father, but part of those tears where for my father, whose health was clearly in free-fall. And my mourning for Mandy (and for Tanner, almost a decade later) was intense, but short-lived, while I would probably be in what I would consider active mourning, more or less, of my father for about two years, if not more, and would have the occasional burst of sadness over that loss periodically to this day. A pet might be mourned more intensely on occasion, but it's still in its way shallower, and a way of coming to terms with our own mortality and that of our human family (not to overstate the case too much, I loved all my dogs and I mourn them out of a real sense of loss at their departure as well).
So I guess the question I ask myself now is, what is the larger issues I'm grappling with as I mourn Maverick? I miss Maverick because he was a sweet, loving dog, and I loved him very much. But I know that pain will fade, and probably quicker than I would want to admit. My mother is older and has health problems, and I'm sure some of my feelings about that are also playing out as I mourn Maverick. But I think my feelings are more pointing towards myself, my mortality, and my life. I'm writing this on Sunday, and I am cognizant that if I had a job, I would probably be there tomorrow, a way of breaking up my moping. I remember going back to work after Tanner died over a weekend, and the first day was difficult, and the second day was, but less so, and the third day my work day was more or less normal, though I still was sad when he wasn't there to welcome me home (Tanner was the most demonstrative dog I've had in his affections, smothering me in kisses every time I walked through the door). The return to routine seems an important part of getting back to living after mourning, but I don't have all that much of a routine. I sleep in, have a late lunch, watch movies, run errands and go to the gym. I've watched a lot of movies this year, which is something I enjoy, but with the current count for 2018 at 621 (including quite a few shorts, I should say), I have to wonder if this is a meaningful way to spend my time -- is this an intellectual pursuit or a compulsion? (there's a lot that could be said about this, I think, perhaps I will write something on the topic at a later date) In any case, the practical issue is that, in the past, I've had my life obligations to help me break with my mourning, and this time I have to make the break myself.
So that is why I think I'm thinking about my life more than I normally would have when losing a pet. Partly it's the practical issue, that the impetus is on me to break my routine and emerge from mourning. But that also raises the issue, just what is my life right now? It's been a year since I left work, due to health issues (which are mostly but not completely behind me). I do not expect this to be a permanent change for me, and in fact when I left, I figured a one-year absence would be about the limit for me. But when the library recently had a job posting, my stomach sunk like a stone, and I was overcome with anxiety. I decided to listen to my feelings and didn't apply, a decision which right now I'm reconsidering the wisdom of. My mother has health issues, and I like being around for her. But I could work part-time and still meet her needs. What I am leaning towards at the moment is returning as a substitute, just to sort of get my sea legs back, so to speak. Then reapplying for a part-time position. I'm fortunate that I can get by just fine on a part-time salary, and while the extra money of a full-time position would be nice, I don't need it, and the time is more valuable to me. I might even find the substitute position is adequate for me, though I would not be building my pension up as a sub. But there are always trade-offs. What I am leaning towards now is waiting until after my vacation in September, then returning as a sub. If an entry-level position is posted between now and then, I will probably apply, to at least keep my options open. And in any event, now is not the time to make rash life choices; I miss Maverick right now, but in a week or so the pain will have receded, experience suggests, and Maverick will be a pleasant memory to reflect upon. Things change. But this sad experience is a stark reminder of that, and a reminder to look at the big picture in my life.
One thing that makes it harder is that I sleep in the bed where Maverick died. I really doubt that will be an issue long-term, but last night I just could not sleep, and I don't think that fact helped at all. I thought I was tired, so I went to bed a bit early (by my standards), but I was still awake at 6:30 (I think I probably nodded off briefly without realizing it, but I definitely didn't sleep much). It's hard to lie in bed and not think about Maverick, could I have saved him? Why did he have to die when I left the room, and I wasn't with him? Was he scared, or was it quick and peaceful? Did I do enough for him in the seven years we had together? Did he like it here? Did he still miss his old family? Really, I don't think dwelling on this is helpful, and I hope I move past it soon (I think the trick will be staying active/breaking my routine, and hopefully just being tired means I will sleep better tonight).
The last point I should address, is Missy. We always suspected Maverick was the most likely to pass first, given his large size, propensity to eat garbage, and in later years, more fragile health compared to Missy. But this was always a source of anxiety for us, as Missy was much more attached to Maverick than vice-versa. But I will say, so far, Missy is doing okay. She is obviously confused and sad, but not as much as I might have feared. She is eating okay, and basically going about her routine. And while I say she is sad, the truth is, she always looks sad, so I could be exaggerating that. But all in all, she's doing as well as could be hoped, I'd say. It does make it a bit more difficult to move on, because she is a constant reminder of his absence. And her lack of demonstrative attention, as dogs go, doesn't help. She isn't one to cuddle up or lick your face, and she hates sitting on laps. But she'll lick your hand, and she'll come up for petting when you come home, so that's something. She's loving in her own way. But it still makes me sad to see her.
So that's that, I think, my feelings on losing Maverick. He was a good dog, and will be missed. And I'll probably have a pretty lousy week, but I'll move on, and let the happy memories of Maverick beat out the pain of his absence. And I'll keep my promise to Maverick, as they wheeled him away, and do everything I can to make Missy's remaining days happy ones.
