Grieving our four-legged friends
When someone loses a beloved pet, it’s so much more than ‘just a dog’
My dog died the day after Christmas in 2016, his last full day of life on Earth. He was 17, a “Westie-Something-Something,” cotton-white and very fluffy. His name was Homer, after the incompetent nuclear power plant manager from The Simpsons.
The name fit his goofy personality. Despite his modest size, Homer always seemed under the impression he was much bigger. He’d bark at strangers, but then run in the other direction the moment they moved closer. He had all the makings of a great guard dog, except he was not actually useful. Any time he saw a group of three or more people in a bunch, he’d make himself a part of the group, squeezing in between a couple of people’s legs, as if he had something essential to hear and to contribute as well.
Since Dec. 26, 2016, memories like this flash through my head constantly. That morning, my mom woke me up and told me blankly, “Homer is dying.” Her eyes were watery and a little red. I felt my pulse rocket upward as I followed her out. Homer was half-conscious, still trying to shake off what looked like a morning seizure.
For the first 30 minutes, I was in denial. I told my mom that I’d seen him shake from time to time before, and this was nothing more than that.
But denial gave way to reality. Homer’s eyes wouldn’t open much, no matter how much we gently poked at him. He hadn’t eaten regularly for three weeks. He’d barely wanted to take walks. I’d been keeping myself afloat by saying it was just a stomach bug of some sort and he’d be getting over it soon.
I didn’t want him to sit here like this all day, conscious but unable to move. My sister, mom and I were all home for the holidays. We took Homer to the vet. Midway en route, I noticed he’d opened his eyes in full, looking like he was still figuring out what was going on. They were his trademark black little marbles, shiny, wide and innocent. Maybe it wasn’t his time after all.
I clung to that shard of hope for a while when we got to the vet and waited in the exam room. For a few minutes, Homer was his old self. He got up on the floor a few times and walked around. He did his trademark rapid doggie shake and bake, which always prepped him for a long walk or helped get water or debris off his body. Except now we were in a spotless and nondescript exam room, and reality again smacked me hard. I seized only on the essential phrases coming out of my vet’s mouth: “poor quality of life,” “in pain,” “organ failure,” “poor teeth,” all enough to know what it all meant.
We were told that we could have as long as we needed with him before the procedure started. When the door closed, my mom said she wanted to hold him to make him feel calm. All of us — Mom, my sister, myself — got down on the floor. We were scrunched together in a circle and took turns petting him. He was calmer than any of us three, eyes starting to close again. I was a much bigger mess. Every time I tried to do a sustained tummy rub or scratch a little under his chin, the tears and the wails came out.
When it was time for Homer to go down the hall to get his IV inserted, I darted to the parking lot. A halfhour passed. I worried something had gone wrong and that Homer was in pain. An hour later, my mom and my sister finally came out. They said nothing had gone wrong, and that they had stayed with Homer a bit after he had passed, silently sharing a final quiet moment with him before leaving him for good.
We drove home and barely said a word.
Why do I — and so many dog and pet owners like me — grieve over the Homers of the world the way we do? Why do we see them as our best friends, as family members, as “people” whom we love as much as our closest human companions?
My own modest contribution to all this? Our bonds with our pets are our mental sanctuaries. Homer was my refuge: my reminder that however much pettiness, betrayal or bad faith that I — or people around me — might exhibit from time to time, there is such a thing as basic goodness.