I had to have my dog put down yesterday. It was completely the right decision, at the right time, but of course it totally sucked. I was able to have the same vet who castrated one of my barn cats on the tailgate of her pickup truck come to the house and do it there, so it was peaceful and calm, and, oddly enough because I've been dreading this day, that's how I feel today.
I've always written from home, but I've never been alone before today. When I quit my job as a research chemist to write, I was pregnant, and far enough along that the baby felt like a minnow fluttering inside me. (That baby lives in Chicago now, working his first full-time grown-up job.) By the time that baby went to preschool, twice a week, I was pregnant with his little minnow sister. (She's in Philadelphia, at college). By the time she went to preschool, twice a week, we had acquired Under Dog, a wiry terrier of limited intelligence but enduring dogged affection for his people. (Under died five years ago, at a very old age, following a stroke.) Eventually we acquired Under's consort, Sweet Polly, one of the gentlest dogs on earth. So while the children were at school, growing up, I would go to my office to write, and the dogs would follow. Polly liked the green chair or the window seat. Under sometimes curled up in the dog bed in the corner but was more likely to drape himself across my feet, to the extent that I eventually put a dog bed beneath my desk. (It's still there. I just checked.)
Polly snored loudly enough that sometimes I had to walk across the room and wake her, as I absolutely couldn't think with that much noise. Under barked whenever anything happened outside--the day the UPS truck chased two deer up our driveway I thought he would burst his brainstem--and Polly joined in if the threat seemed real.
Yesterday afternoon I felt very sad. I'd been feeling sad all weekend, knowing what was on the horizon, but I'd made my peace with it. It was sad, and right, and good. But I still let myself feel sad. My husband came home late, after basketball practice, but I thought to myself, if there's ever a day you're allowed to put on flannel pajamas at four in the afternoon, it's the day you euthanize your dog. So I did. Then I heard my daughter's voice. While she was home for Christmas, when we came in cold from riding and doing the barn chores, she'd say, "Mom, would you like a hot beverage?" and put the kettle on for tea. So I put the kettle on, and brewed a nice pot of herbal tea. I snuggled up under the floofy couch blanket, and drank tea, and read a book about the Holocaust because the one I need to read, about the village of Qurna in Egypt, was too technical for my sad brain.
I also baked a chicken, because it was a comforting dinner that required very little work on my part.
This morning I slept in a bit. Lately the dog had been sleeping in our bed. It was hard for her to sleep with her heart condition worsening, and it made her feel panicky unless she was with us--but she coughed and wheezed in the night, and the last few nights I'd woken several times to check if she was still breathing. Last night I woke several times, thinking, where's the dog?
But now it's morning. I'm writing in the complete silence of an empty house. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. I miss my darling Polly. I miss Under. And I'm okay with the quiet that surrounds me.
I've always written from home, but I've never been alone before today. When I quit my job as a research chemist to write, I was pregnant, and far enough along that the baby felt like a minnow fluttering inside me. (That baby lives in Chicago now, working his first full-time grown-up job.) By the time that baby went to preschool, twice a week, I was pregnant with his little minnow sister. (She's in Philadelphia, at college). By the time she went to preschool, twice a week, we had acquired Under Dog, a wiry terrier of limited intelligence but enduring dogged affection for his people. (Under died five years ago, at a very old age, following a stroke.) Eventually we acquired Under's consort, Sweet Polly, one of the gentlest dogs on earth. So while the children were at school, growing up, I would go to my office to write, and the dogs would follow. Polly liked the green chair or the window seat. Under sometimes curled up in the dog bed in the corner but was more likely to drape himself across my feet, to the extent that I eventually put a dog bed beneath my desk. (It's still there. I just checked.)
Polly snored loudly enough that sometimes I had to walk across the room and wake her, as I absolutely couldn't think with that much noise. Under barked whenever anything happened outside--the day the UPS truck chased two deer up our driveway I thought he would burst his brainstem--and Polly joined in if the threat seemed real.
Yesterday afternoon I felt very sad. I'd been feeling sad all weekend, knowing what was on the horizon, but I'd made my peace with it. It was sad, and right, and good. But I still let myself feel sad. My husband came home late, after basketball practice, but I thought to myself, if there's ever a day you're allowed to put on flannel pajamas at four in the afternoon, it's the day you euthanize your dog. So I did. Then I heard my daughter's voice. While she was home for Christmas, when we came in cold from riding and doing the barn chores, she'd say, "Mom, would you like a hot beverage?" and put the kettle on for tea. So I put the kettle on, and brewed a nice pot of herbal tea. I snuggled up under the floofy couch blanket, and drank tea, and read a book about the Holocaust because the one I need to read, about the village of Qurna in Egypt, was too technical for my sad brain.
I also baked a chicken, because it was a comforting dinner that required very little work on my part.
This morning I slept in a bit. Lately the dog had been sleeping in our bed. It was hard for her to sleep with her heart condition worsening, and it made her feel panicky unless she was with us--but she coughed and wheezed in the night, and the last few nights I'd woken several times to check if she was still breathing. Last night I woke several times, thinking, where's the dog?
But now it's morning. I'm writing in the complete silence of an empty house. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. I miss my darling Polly. I miss Under. And I'm okay with the quiet that surrounds me.
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