|
| ||
|
Losing a pet leaves an empty place Lately, I've missed Bagel, who died of old age in 1989. Seven years earlier, the sandy cocker spaniel had jumped into my lap and heart at Denver Dumb Friends League, the animal shelter that coined its name in 1910 for animals who can't speak. I couldn't imagine why this gentle, brown-eyed dog was homeless. The shelter had little information except that she had been found walking on a nearby street. From the second she charged into my emotions, I knew she'd be our first baby. Unlike our human babies, born years later, our canine came potty-trained, didn't talk back and required no savings for college. But we wished she could talk. "Where did you come from?" we wondered. "Why do you bark at thunder and horses but not at the doorbell? Her eyebrows would furl as if to say, "I am telling you the story, you just can't understand me." Our love affair with this sweet dog lasted through the birth of our first daughter and a move to Milwaukee that took Bagel away from her home, the Rockies. Three years after the move, she started slowing down. She'd lose her appetite and control of her bladder and bowels. Our vet said that she was probably older than we imagined when we adopted her. Soon, he said, she would wither and die. We agonized for weeks. We tried to prepare our daughter, Sarah, then 4, that her furry sister would be leaving. For good. "Will Bagel die when I'm alive?" she asked one afternoon as the dog stretched out in a square of sun. Sarah, too, wanted to avoid the pain of missing her beloved. Every moment seemed poignant. Bagel would have a good day, meaning she'd eat, beg to go outside and even take a short walk. Maybe the vet was wrong, we'd say as we snapped a picture of her holding her leash in her mouth as she'd walk herself down the driveway. Perhaps she just had a dog virus? But then she stopped climbing stairs to our bedroom where she'd slept on a soft pillow. She was afraid to walk on the hardwood floors because they were slippery. The Saturday we decided to end her life, she had defecated next to the TV, and she couldn't get up. We reminded Sarah that Bagel was old. And getting uncomfortable. "Before I take her to the doctor," I said, "I want you to say goodbye to her. She may not come home." Silently, through tears, Sarah bent down to kiss the dog on her head, then her ear and her nose. "Bye, Bagel," she said. "Feel better." My heart gushed open, and I wept. Sarah knew. But she couldn't let Bagel know she knew. Bagel needed hope. And prayers. I was glad I could hold Bagel as she died a peaceful, fast death. My mind didn't flash to the irony of her puppylike jump into my lap at the shelter and now her lifeless body in my arms at the doctor's office. Instead, I just sobbed. I took off her tags and rubbed her fur one more time. In a blur of tears, I found my way to the car, where I sat in the driver's seat for who knows how long. There is no love more unconditional than a pet's for its humans. And conversely, every emotion felt for our pet was pure. Not complicated. Ask adults about their pets, present or past, and they will melt. When a pet dies, the grief lives on. Even if a new animal is adopted, there is still a distinct place for the pet that once filled your life. On the day of Bagel's death, I had to do something. On the way home, I bought a book: "I'll Always Love You" by Hans Wilhelm (Crown paperback, $6.99). It's a children's book about a boy who grows up and his dog, Elfie, who grows old and dies. The touching book deals with a child's healthy reaction to profound grief. I wrote a little something to Sarah in honor of Bagel. And together we cried as we read, and reread, that book many years ago. Last Sunday, missing Bagel, I scrounged through Sarah's shelves looking for Elfie. She has a section of her favorite little-kid books next to copies of In Style magazine. Madeline, Eloise and Swimmy were all there. But alas, no Elfie. When Sarah came home, I asked if she still had "that book about the dog that dies." Yes, she still had it. Tucked in a drawer. "To Sarah: Bagel's spirit will live in our hearts and minds forever. Daddy and I love you." The inscription was dated 1/7/89. I had no idea. Bagel died exactly 12 years ago. Last Sunday. The bond between a pet and their human lives on, and on. Written by Polly Drew, a marriage and family therapist. Appeared in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel on Jan. 14, 2001.  |
| |||