Callie is Gone

Our dog Callie died. If you grow tired of people going on about their dog or their grief, as I admit I have in the past, let me offer up some thoughts. Besides how endearing a dog can be, there are the human lessons. Callie has been teaching me for years, so it is only fitting that in her death I have more to learn.

Out of the house and down the street I go, the usual way. A right turn crossing the street so as to walk on the left side of the street. As I learned as a kid, “always walk against the traffic so you can see cars coming.” My feet were steady stepping, thump, thump, thump with only a slight tapping sound of my shoestrings. There were no stops, no interruptions. My face curls up in an awkward cry, I put my hand over my mouth and sob. This was my first walk without Callie on the same path she and I took (I’m not exaggerating) hundreds of times. She’s gone and I’m walking alone. I cry because it is so unnatural from what I am used to.

So many things are easier: When walking I wait to get to the street before cutting across traffic. There will be no more spots on the floor when I mop from her drool; she never drank water without a good portion of it dripping back out. There were scratches on our hardwood floor, early morning wake up visits to the side of the bed, chores of “I’ve got to feed the dog, got to walk the dog, got to get home to not leave the dog alone too long…” We often said, “Do you want to go?” to a dog who loved car rides to anywhere.

I always said she was a terrible walker, so many stops and runs. Stopping to sniff, galloping in excitement of smells she was tracking, then suddenly stopping again.

-Lesson: The things that irritated you about another are exactly the things you wish you had again when they are gone.

Callie got especially excited in places she had not been recently, like the park. When we first got her, we just had a leash and a collar for walking; it was a constant struggle for man and beast (or woman and beast when my wife took her). She wanted to pull hard, lunge at this or that, and stop suddenly. My wife’s purchase of a retractable cord leash was magical. We didn’t have to stop at every stop she wanted but she still pulled like she was a sled dog in a race. After a few unsuccessful tries of harnaces we found one with the hook in the front. It was the perfect piece of equipment needed for walking Callie because if she pulled too hard, it turned her around, so she stopped pulling like work and it became more like play.

-Lesson: Sometimes life needs additional equipment so you can manage it better.

The downhill process began weeks before when she became listless, and her eating and digestion were  impaired. A trip to the veterinarian revealed no clear diagnosis. But IV fluids and a change of diet brought her back seemingly to normal. She was older so she was slower, sure, but otherwise fine. She ate well, she had normal peeing and pooping, she barked at delivery trucks and dogs going by. She took walks, though she tired out more easily. Some days she would run hard for short stretches, chasing a squirrel, running downhill and over a short stone wall to visit my sister’s house where she gets treats.

Then the results of a test for lymphoma came back positive. And the vet said the most a dog ever lives after diagnosis has been a year, in rare cases. Over two months things deteriorated. We went from two long walks a day to two short walks, then just one. She’s always been hot natured because she has so much hair, but she panted most of the time, even when it didn’t seem she should be hot. We kept the house cooler than we liked to help her.

-Lesson: Denial can make you see what you want to see instead of the signs pointing elsewhere.

In the last week I noticed bumps that came up on her snout and head. My wife had already felt bumps in several other places on her body. She had always roamed at night, but sleep got more restless, and her breathing seemed less natural, more difficult. All the while she has the same face, the same attitude begging for eggs or sausage for breakfast, and any food she could get at other meals. She has always loved trips in the car and kept going, but for the first time we got some blank stares and no movement at all when someone mentioned the word “go.”

The last day started out well. Breakfast was gobbled up, licking the bowl clean. She took a walk around the pond. She spent most of the day hanging out with a singing 3-year-old playing cars and watching kid videos. She eagerly ate her supper. Then, after dark, panting, pacing, and trying to get comfortable were her full occupations. I found a big bump on her tail she had been chewing so much that it had dried blood. She laid down, then got back up. We gave her pain medication, but it didn’t work. I sat for a while on the floor with her, trying to comfort her but she wandered off. My wife sat down with her trying to console her too; at one point Callie turned and looked Darlene in the face seeming to ask for some relief. Then she walked down the hall toward the bedrooms as she has done every night for years. Maybe she will settle down, we said to each other. It was quiet, she seemed still, then looking into the room, we saw her again on her feet, restless, unable to get comfortable.

-Lesson: Accumulating facts can make it clear that action needs to be taken, even when we don’t want to act.

It was time. She went in the car so often it was no challenge to get her to take a ride. Callie couldn’t have known this was a ride she would not come back from. My wife and I were devastated and at the same time fully convinced this is what we had to do. After 10 o’clock at night, we headed out the door to a 24-hour veterinarian service. Once there, they took her to put an IV in her paw. So we were in the exam room alone. We cried together.

-Lesson: Sobbing loudly is embarrassing except when you can’t help yourself. It is the only response for some situations. Crying gracefully won’t do.

The woman vet was kind and gentle. Everyone at the clinic was kind to us and to Callie. As we sat on the floor with her on a quilt they gave us, the first liquid they gave her was a sedative, the kind used to just prepare for surgery. Her body was calmed, and her eyes closed. Then the other liquid was put in the IV that would stop her heart. Then she was gone. Still looking beautiful with the swirls of her white and tan hair on her back, she seemed to be sleeping, but she would not wake up. My first thought was: Callie was an irreplaceable gift of God to us and the world.

-Lesson: When someone you love is gone often the first things you think are tributes to them, who they were and what they meant to you.

Our Callie she was fun, muscular, athletic, loyal, sensitive, beautiful, strong, easily startled, a beggar, loved back rubs, had beds all over the house, claimed other people as hers: young and old family members, friends and acquaintances.

We walked out of the 24-hour vet clinic without our dog. Crying was much easier to do than talking because every thought that could be expressed choked my throat but spilled out in tears.

It's so many things: It’s the finality of death, it’s the shock of the cut off, it’s the unfairness, and the surprise (because no matter what signs you had to tell you it is coming, when it arrives it is different than you thought). Wailing and sobbing just come out because grief is not just a mental process, it involves the whole body.

We’ll miss the touching, the sitting down by this dog purposely on your feet, hard up against your leg, or on top of you if you were sitting on the floor. The licks on your skin when she was in the mood, patiently waiting for a meal, treats, or to go on a walk. She always took food gently from your hand, never biting.

Grief over a dog can be just like grief over a beloved family member. I sat at the bedside of my father and my mother as each of them died. Both were older, had lived good lives and had major (though different from each other) health problems at their death. Watching each of my parents die felt like something I was prepared for, but I was not.

People have told me that they knew their loved one was really sick, but they didn’t know they would die. Or some say they knew they would die but didn’t think it would happen yet.

Is it possible to ever be ready for death? For those who lose someone in a sudden event like a car accident, it must feel like having them ripped away from your hands that are trying but incapable of holding onto them. It's so many things: It’s the finality of death, it’s the shock of the cut off, it’s the unfairness, and the surprise because when it arrives it is different than you imagined.

Think with me for a moment: Who or what do you grieve? Some might hear this story of my grief over losing our dog and relate to it; it could feel like grief you have had for someone or something else. Or you might be offended by it; your grief was so much more intense or personal. However you feel, allow that your grief is real and justified. It is okay that you admit your hurt at your losses. We all have grief, though it is different for each of us. Grieving is not weak, it is human. When you feel the different aspects of grief: anger, denial, depressed, confused, or lost, you are not crazy, you are grieving. And the endpoint of grief, if there is one, is not “closure,” it is acceptance. Somehow, we accept that life now is different because of the absence we feel.

Matthew 5:4 says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” It may not come easily, and it may take a lot of time, but there can be comfort for we who grieve. We must look grief in the face, see it, experience its pain, then hopefully receive comfort.