Dear Bebe. Sweet Bebe. People keep telling me what a lucky dog you were to have us as your family. And I guess I agree. We didn’t have family that lived in town so everyone became your family. When your dad and I traveled we always had a friend who was willing to watch you. You were such an easy dog. Maybe you got into the trash here and there and one time, while Jason was walking you, you rolled in human feces at the park...but hey, you liked playing in the dirt. You listened when we took you to the park off leash or hiking, yet you’d never get off the couch or out of our friends beds. You loved sleeping under the covers...I think all vizslas do, and we had to warn everyone that was part of the deal when you were with them. I think all the years we had you, we only boarded you 3 or four times at an actual doggie daycare. You were so loved by so many.
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You’re the only dog who liked to hike as much as me. My human friends don’t even like to hike as much as you did. You would get far enough ahead where I could still see you, but you’d always come back to check and make sure I was there. We summited a lot of mountains together. Remember that time on Mt. Princeton where the fog rolled in and we lost our way coming down? I’ve never been so scared. I couldn’t see more than 5 feet in front of me...but I followed you and I trusted you to stay on the right path. We trusted each other a lot didn’t we?
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Your dad always said I was the sucker. You would come over to my side of the bed and paw at me to let you under the covers. When you were little you slept at my feet. When you got older you were the little spoon to my big spoon. Then you entered your senior years and couldn’t jump on the bed anymore. Yet, you’d sit on the floor by my side, pawing at me. I’d pull you up into bed like you were a child wanting to snuggle. You always seemed at peace in the bed with us. When we went camping you begged to get in my sleeping bag. Towards the end you slept between Chad and I, over the covers with a blanket wrapped around you. When the grandparents were in town you’d go sleep with them. Maybe we were all suckers...but we couldn’t bear to say no to you.
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We made all our life decisions based on you. Where we lived, how close to parks we were and if the yard was fenced in or not. I don’t know why we needed a yard because you loved to run. I could throw the ball for you for hours and it didn’t matter, you always wanted more. We had to hide tennis balls from you because once you found them there was no stopping you. Remember the coffee table where we hid them in the drawer? You’d look at us, then the drawer then us, begging with your eyes for someone to open it. I warned people once they started to throw the ball for you, it would never end until you’d take the ball under a shady spot and rest...panting and tongue hanging out nearly touching the ground.
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We picked our new house because it has a private dog park. It breaks my heart we can’t take you there anymore.
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We drove to Michigan many times because of you. You were even at our wedding. We decided not to have you walk down the aisle though, just to have you in photos. You weren’t one for lots of attention. We had you in our engagement photos and family photos as well. You were always part of the family. You always will be. I hope you felt that. I hope your soul still does.
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We would buy you treats and toys but you didn’t care much for them. Later on in life we had to beg people not to feed you table scraps because you’d get sick. What you really wanted was to come with us. You’d follow us to the door and beg to ride in the car with your eyes. You didn’t care about things, you just wanted to be with us. You didn’t need a fancy dog bed because you had ours. We still have the stuffed squirrel we got you when you were a baby because you never ripped it up. You ate our couch but you wouldn’t rip up your toys.
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We had you for so many years and through so many life events that it was hard to recognize your age. When people asked how old you were, we had to think really hard. We couldn’t admit you were 11, 12, 13….we didn’t want to believe your time with us was coming to an end. Gradually we started leaving you at home when we went for walks and on hikes. You just couldn’t make the journey anymore and you would simply stand still and refuse to walk when we did take you out. We would throw the ball and you couldn’t see it….only smell it. I started to come home from my trips and you wouldn’t greet me at the door because you lost your hearing. Your dad use to say you would sniff the air when I walked in the door and that’s how you knew I was home. But then your nose dried up and you couldn’t smell us either. We would panic when we came home because we couldn’t find you. After a quick search we’d find you in Charlotte’s bed….always Charlotte’s bed, because it was the easiest bed to climb into. We knew your time was coming to a close but still, we didn’t want to let you go.
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There were times we thought we lost you before we lost you. We’d spend a great deal on ultrasounds and bloodwork only to find out you were just incontinent and had dry eyes. There were many times you weren’t acting yourself and we prepared for the worst. We cried and told you we loved you and we’d wake up...fearing the worst, but there you were. I don’t think, if it was up to you, you were ever going to let us go.
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You were never going to leave our side. You knew we needed you too much. Our hearts were never going to be ready to say good-bye.
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When your dad looked and me and said, “it’s time,” I knew in my heart of hearts it was. And I’m sorry I dragged it out for so long. I read on the internet all about senior dogs and symptoms of end of life and I feel guilty for keeping you around as long as we did. You were bumping into things, you couldn’t see. You were restless at night because your bones ached and then slept all day. You were sensitive to our touch and even nipped us a few times out of fear. You got confused and would use the bathroom in the house. You’d spill your water bowl stepping in it and tip over your food. That wasn’t who you were. That was never who you were. At the end you were a shell of your former self. A soul stuck in a body that was failing. But still you hung on.
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So, like all good moms, I made the best and hardest decision I’ve ever made for you. Do you know how hard it is researching euthanasia? You should really research those things before your dog gets near the end. And you should really not answer the phone and have the discussion on the end of your dogs life at a Wal-mart parking lot on a Sunday on your way to buy Christmas lights.
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Christmas….you weren’t going to be here for Christmas.
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They say death is an appointment you can’t cancel. Well, I wanted to cancel that’s for sure. When the Doctor came to the door, my heart sank. We had 24 hours to say good-bye. We snuggled you. We took you to the park. I bought you your very own Chick-fil-e sandwich. I wanted your day to be special. I wanted to do so much more. But you were tired. Your soul was tired. I could tell, you just wanted to go home.
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The Doctor was nice. So nice. Those Veterinarian's are saints who come to your home. All of them are, but can you imagine going to someone’s home? What they must see. You had no idea. You were sleeping quietly on our bed. Your dad wanted to have your final moments of life celebrated on that bed. We didn’t want it to be scary for you...even if it meant a lifetime of sad memories when I look at the foot of the bed.
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You didn’t like the tranquilizer. You fought it. We didn’t expect that. You stood up and you shook. You tried to bite the doctor when she stuck the needle in you. For a moment I wanted to scream no. To stop the whole thing. If you were fighting it didn’t that mean something? But then you settled in as the Doctor rubbed your head. She said there’s a pressure point on the skull dogs find relaxing. I guess you did, because you finally gave in and laid back down. We snuggled you tight in your favorite blanket. The one that was always covered in your hair.The doctor said that was a true testimony to your spirit, always fighting until the end.
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I saw her cover the needle with a paper towel, but I knew what was in it. It’s bright pink liquid. I worked in a vet clinic so I knew. But I pretended not to watch. She told us when she was administering the medicine. The one that would shut down your brain functions and then your respiratory and heart. Your dad and Charlotte couldn’t speak they were so overcome with tears so I did the talking. I told you how much we loved you. What a good girl you were. The Doctor listened to your heart for what seemed like forever after all the medicine was in your body. It seemed like you were still hanging on. You started puffing breathes out of your mouth.
“She’s puffing out air because she’s getting ready to fly,” the Doctor said.
I kept telling you to go. Not because I wanted you to go, but in case that’s what you were waiting on. In case you needed to know it was OK. It felt like you needed that push to fly. I didn’t want to push you. But that’s what mother birds do to their baby birds. Otherwise they’ll stay in the nest forever. They won’t fly if they aren’t pushed because they don’t trust their wings. I wanted you to trust yours.
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“Her heart has stopped.” the Doctor finally said.
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It seemed like we were waiting a lifetime to hear her say that. And then we kissed you goodbye and sobbed the biggest sobs. And we wrapped you up in your favorite blanket and your dad and the Doctor carried you out on a stretcher. The Doctor wrapped you in a second blanket with paw prints. I saw a box of them in her car. That must be the good-bye blanket. Kinglsey and kitty bitty were at the door of our bedroom after you passed. It was as if they knew. They didn’t bother us while we were saying our final good-byes and the Doctor was in the room but they came to look in and wish you farewell before she came back with the stretcher to take you away.
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They put you in the back of her car and I hugged the Doctor. She really was a saint for what she did for us.
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And then we came in the house and it was so empty...like you were never there.
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We cried on the bed where you just were. I looked over and your food bowl was full. It still is. I can’t bear to empty it. As if you might come back in perfect form at any moment in time.
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We bought this bottle of wine with a Vizsla on it at a little orchard in Michigan two years ago and we saved it. We saved it and we didn’t know why we just knew it was special. So we opened that bottle and toasted to you. It was bizarre...the minutes and hours after you were gone. There was the most beautiful pink sunset we watched and I knew that was you saying to us you were OK and flying high. Free of pain and your earthly body which was failing you. We all just kinda wandered the house aimlessly. Drinking wine. Crying. Distracting ourselves with a hot tub soak and the TV. I clutched the blanket on the end of our bed that smelled like you still and I slept with it all night. I woke up to the cat on the end of the bed and I thought it was you. I didn’t want to sleep but I wanted the worst day ever to be over. Maybe if I closed my eyes the bad dream would end.
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I was wrong. The worst day wasn’t the day you passed, it was the next day. The first day we had to live without you. No one to let out on the grass. No one to mix food and medicine for. You loved sleeping under the covers and as much as I always wanted to make the bed you were always in the way. For the first time in 13 years it was easy to make the bed because you weren’t in it. Too easy. I would give anything for another day with a messy bed if it meant you’d still be here.
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I know this won’t be the last time I’ll write to you. I have so many words left to say and conversations to have with you. I don’t want this to be where it all ends...the story of you...of us. Your life as a Magee. But I just wanted to remember our last 24 hours with you. Our quiet time in the sun. The final words I spoke to you. How you looked as you passed. How I thought I saw a little tear come out of your eye when I was holding you and telling you I loved you and realized it was just a tiny piece of glitter. Maybe a little bit of my makeup that had gotten on your face.
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A little of me rubbed off on you but your love and spirit forever rubbed off on me.
