Dancing in Doggie Heaven

June 29, 2009

She was a lovely Keeshond, a mid-sized dog that looked like a cross between a German Spitz and a very subdued wolf. She had the prettiest face (and she knew it too) and had a plush coat of gray and black fur -- thus, she was given the name Ashes.

Oh, she made the greatest family pet. We used to joke that because she was so tame, she would probably lick a burglar to death. We thought we lost her once and that created quite a stir in the house. Come to find out, she had locked herself in the bathroom. But she just sat there silently -- no barking nor scratching on the door. She just waited for us to find her. When we finally did, she happily jumped up, flipped her tightly curled tail, and panted wildly with tongue hanging from her smiling milk mouth.

Who wouldn't be fond of this sweet creature that I call a furball? She wants to constantly be around people. Whenever my husband and I are cuddled in front of the TV, she would inject herself and stick her nose between us as if to say, "Hi guys! Remember me?"

But that was years ago. At almost 13 years old, Ashes suffered from arthritis and began to have "accidents" inside the house. Apparently, she was in so much pain that she couldn't muster the strength to go outside and "do her business." Recently, she became very lethargic and thirsty all the time. We soon discovered that she had developed diabetes. At that point, we made the commitment of giving her insulin shots twice a day. On schedule. No fail.

Then we noticed how the medication caused her to lose her sense of sight. I would call out her name and oddly, she would turn the other way. It made me sad to look in her clouded eyes and not see my reflection in them. Her blindness caused her to seem disoriented at times, bumping into walls, or walking in circles. It broke my heart to see her in this sorry state. So we made the difficult decision to finally put her down.

The lady vet arrived at our house promptly at 10 am. She was wearing scrubs and held what looked like a big toolbox. Just the sight of her already brought tears to my eyes and I had to grab a box of tissues. To prepare us for the inevitable, she walked us through the process and carefully explained every detail we should expect.

Following her instructions, my husband and I flanked Ashes on each side and stroked her lovely hair. Meanwhile, my stepson placed a bowl of food in front of her -- all part of the distraction so that the vet could inject Ashes with anesthesia from behind. The lady vet said it would take about 3 minutes and then she stepped outside to give us some privacy.

Ashes immediately gobbled up that food, gnawing and licking excitedly...and then slowly, ever so slowly, she drifted off to a deep sleep. My heart sank and I started to sob in unison with my family. We muttered our parting words and continued to caress her.

Minutes later, the lady vet returned and shaved Ashes' leg in preparation for the next procedure. Throughout this process, she kept explaining that Ashes was totally unconscious to know or feel what was happening. I knew that she was just trying to comfort us with her words but I wanted her to just shut up. I completely understood what was happening. "Please, no need for you to state the obvious," I wanted to say.

In the middle of the vet's blabbing, Ashes suddenly appeared awake and looked like she was chewing on a giant invisible bone. She was having a seizure which, the lady vet explained, was not unusual. More anesthetic was induced. When we confirmed that we were ready, she pulled out a thick syringe filled with what resembled pink lemonade. She patted the shaved area of Ashes' leg with her forefinger and then gave her the final shot. Using a stethoscope, she later confirmed that Ashes was gone.

Our next guest was an elderly man from the Pet Crematorium. Unobtrusively, he walked into our home with a folded velvet blanket under his arm. "Do you need a few more minutes?" he asked almost in a whisper. When I answered, "We're ready," he put a tag on Ashes' right leg which I held and caressed one last time. The identifying tag was to ensure that we correctly get back the remains of our pet. "With your permission, I'd like to put a bag over her," he once again said in a faint voice. I nodded as I wiped my tears and blew my nose. I helped lift Ashes into the bag. Her lifeless body was by now beginning to lose warmth. Then the compassionate man proceeded to wrap Ashes with the velvet blanket and gently carried her away.

I knew all along that I would miss her so much. But last night, the grief just ambushed me and I started to sob away again. How I cried at the painful thought that she will no longer be rushing out to greet me when I come home.

Friends and family who knew Ashes sent words of condolences, my favorite of which was: "She's in doggie heaven, running around like the active young puppy she once was. She's now making a mess eating her meal up in the clouds instead of in your laundry room. No more pain, no more blindness."