After we brought them home, the girls chose their favorites. Molly, bold, a little pushy, and always wanting to be the centre of attention, was drawn to her daddy. Missy, small, timid, dainty, and affectionate was my little girl. She'd lie under my desk while I worked or wrote, glancing up every now and then to make sure I was still there. She'd drape across my lap while I watched costume dramas. She'd sit in a corner of the kitchen while I puttered around, eyes bright, ears up, hoping for a treat (which I almost always gave her).
Missy died on Saturday.
The heart problems which have plagued both dogs (not unusual for the breed) hit Missy harder than her more robust sister. While Molly's been on the same dosage of medication since the day she was diagnosed two years ago, Missy's dosages had to increase steadily, until she was taking as much diuretic as a full-grown human being. Over the past few months, her weight dropped alarmingly, until she was skin and bones, unable to put any weight on, even though she was still eating. She was too frail to go for walks anymore, or to even go up or down more than a few stairs--she had to be carried. Lying down comfortably became difficult, so she'd doze sitting up, like an old lady in front of the telly. But she still followed me into the kitchen, and she still spun happily, though more slowly than she used to, when she was excited about something. Her appetite was still good, and she still loved her little treats.
My goals for her became short-term. By March, when my husband left for Edinburgh, I just prayed she wouldn't take such a steep nosedive I'd have to have to take her to be put down all by myself. I'd never done that before, and I'm emotional. I didn't know if I'd even be able to manage the short drive to the vet's office on my own if I was crying that much. I just hoped to get her to Edinburgh in one piece, and I did. And here, she did a bit better for a little while. Our new vet tried her on a different diuretic which seemed to help her. She had more energetic days and even managed to go to the park a couple of times. She was happy.
Saturday capped off a rather good week for her. The weather had been nice on Wednesday, so I took both dogs up to Inverleith Park. She couldn't manage the walk, so I carried her, telling myself it was a good arm workout, even though she was down to only 6kg by then, less than half the weight of her sister. At the park, she sat down in the grass and sniffed the air and greeted a couple of dogs that came her way. Then, worn out, she slept the rest of the day.
On Saturday, she ate her dinner as usual, and begged for some of mine. Afterwards, my husband headed off to read The Hunger Games while I parked myself in front of the telly for Call the Midwife. The dogs settled down at my side. After a peaceful half hour, I suddenly heard Missy hit the floor with a thump. I glanced over and, from the way she was lying, I knew what had happened. I leaped over the sofa arm and knelt beside her just as she expelled her last breath. I burst into tears and ran to get my husband. For him--a man who used to work in a hospital--instinct kicked in and he tried CPR, even as I wailed that it was too late, and she was gone. And she was, that was clear. The limp, wasted little body wasn't my dog anymore. Her eyes had none of her sweetness and warmth. There was nothing there.
We called the vet's emergency line and they told us to bring her in. The body was wrapped in her blanket and a cab was called. What must the poor cabbie have thought of the two hollow-eyed people who met him on our step, one still crying, the other holding a tiny bundle in both arms?
At the 24-hour surgery, a nurse met us at the door and quickly took the bundle away. We made arrangements, paid for the cremation, and declined their offer to spend more time with the body. What purpose would it serve? That wasn't my girl anymore. The nurse who had taken her returned and silently handed me her collar with a sympathetic smile. I burst into tears all over again, thinking of how loose it had become on her little neck in those last few weeks.
I've never had to deal with a pet's death before. The dogs we had when I was small died when I was a toddler; later pets died while I was at college or after I'd moved out of the house. I've certainly never had one die right in front of me, and I've never had to deal with the practicalities that follow such an event. I wondered if I would feel guilty somehow, because I'd dragged her to the park and because we hadn't been home to give her her midday diuretics on Saturday, but I don't feel guilty. A trip to the park didn't lead to her early death, her genetics did. I'm grieving, of course. Even though we knew this was coming, that doesn't make it easier. Little things will set me off, or nothing at all. I teared up running through the park today, and I'm crying a lot as I write this. It's been less than 48 hours and the wound is still very, very raw. But there really is some comfort to be had in the fact that it was so quick and painless. Her heart failed and she died instantly. There was no drawn out period of pain that forced our hands, no long night before the dreaded last trip to the veterinary surgery to stand by and watch the light go out of her eyes. We were all spared that, a fact for which I am grateful.
I'll be crying for a little while--like I told my husband, I'll be leaky for a few days yet, at least. But having Molly is a comfort, and I have a lot of happy memories with little Missler, like how excited she would be when I came home, and how that little tuft of hair would stand up on the back of her head, or how she'd demand to be petted by shoving her head underneath my hand when it was idle for too long. She was loving to the very end. I'll remember her healthy and energetic, barking at dogs three times her size, circling excitedly before her walks, running through my parents' back yard towards me when I got back from vacation. I'll remember her like this:
I think she would have wanted it this way.
