Sad words barely sum up loss of Leila
Leila, our 11-year-old, white pit bull mix, bore an uncanny resemblance to Snoopy. But unlike the comic strip beagle whose ironic reserve Charlie Brown can never penetrate, Leila was always a people pleaser — and happily so.
She was an exceptionally friendly dog who disarmed nervous guests with a few quick sniffs and a lick of the hand, as if to say, “See? I could’ve taken your whole hand in one gulp, but I didn’t. I’m not that kind of dog. I’m one of the good ones, so relax, dude.”
Leila, whose name was always mispronounced Layla by those outside the family instead of our use of Lee-la,, didn’t seem to mind overcompensating for her breed’s fearsome reputation. She’d wag her tail even at the things that got on her nerves.
Leila showed off her deep, masculine bark every day from the safety of our fencedin yard. She was determined to show passing dog-walkers and those taking shortcuts through the alley who was boss, but it was mostly theater. In reality, Leila was the wimpiest of wimpy dogs. It was something I always teased her about during our daily telepathic conversations.
Come on, I know I’m not the only one who thinks he has nonverbal “conversations” with a pet. When we locked eyes, words from somewhere deep inside both of us would fill the space between our species.
Leila’s “voice” inside my head sounded bemused and full of sighs, as if she understood it was her job to humor me until the bag of bacon strips came out of the cupboard. It was one of the most enjoyable rituals of our day.
Almost three weeks ago, my wife and I noticed that a lot of the fierce canine energy Leila’s had since she was a puppy had suddenly disappeared, along with her appetite. She wasn’t even responding to bacon strips anymore.
When we locked eyes for our conversations, all I heard was heavy breathing. Leila wasn’t in pain, but she spent most of her days sleeping.
As we waited for the result of blood tests from the veterinarian, my wife and I quietly acknowledged the obvious — Leila probably wasn’t from a species of dog that would somehow live forever.
During a visit to the vet Wednesday morning, we finally got a definitive diagnosis: advanced lung cancer. It would be only a matter of days before Leila would begin to struggle for every breath, as if she were underwater. We couldn’t bear the thought of her suffering like that.
An hour later, my wife and I took turns digging Leila’s grave in the backyard next to the basketball court. Leila’s favorite Steelers pillow, stained with the drool of years spent watching games on Sundays with the boys, serves as her gravestone. I won’t be able to look at it without tearing up for a long time.
Ideally, we’re supposed to outlive our pets. Loving a pet is always going to be a Faustian bargain. In exchange for a decade or two of unconditional love, we get to watch them die and feel their absence with a mix of sorrow and deepest gratitude for their years of friendship. That’s the price of the ticket — a sense of crushing loss.
The first night in the house without Leila was spent blinking away all the ghosts in the corners of my eyes. Every room in our house is full of memories. Meanwhile, Leila’s dog bowls sit empty and unattended. Her toys and blankets are still underfoot, waiting for the day her absence doesn’t ache anymore.
It is devastating to realize that in the decade we were privileged to have her, there was never a moment that I didn’t take Leila for granted. She was always four legs of pure love bounding toward me at the end of the day, unbidden and sometimes even unappreciated.
Two nights or so before she died, we sat on the back porch enjoying the unseasonably cool air. She looked rested and beautiful. When we locked eyes I could almost hear her say: “Chill out, dude. All will be well.”