Planning the Death of My Dog

Gizmo, our Pekinese/Pomeranian, has been suffering from sort of skin allergy.  Monday, Tim took him in for a recheck.  He called me mid-morning to say that the vet had done tests and found that something was pressing against Gizmo's stomach.  They'd like to do an ultra-sound and exploratory surgery. 

The next morning, our thirteen year old little man was laid out on their table, ready to be explored.  My phone rang shortly after they opened him up.  He indeed had a large mass that had spread to his spleen, and kidney.  The veterinarian wanted to know if we wanted him to be woken up or let go.

Let him go?  Are you kidding me?  If this kind woman thought I was able to make any but the most mundane decisions, she was mistaken.  If shealso  thought she had a mature, unselfish woman on the line who would put her pet's suffering above her own desperate needs for love and affection, well, she clearly had the wrong girl.

Once I had pulled over to the side of the road, and told her through huge gasps of air, that she was to wake him, and we would bring him home to say good-bye before putting him down, I hung up and let those huge donkey-braying sobs fly.  Why did it feel like every member in my sacred circle was on hit?  Oh, right..because they have been.  Cory...her cat Church...my cat Sassy...now Gizmo- every aging pet another chapter of Cory's childhood closed, and set to the side.

Gizmo was the only male in the house who didn't sigh and look equal parts sad and resentful when I brought up Cory's name.  He also slept in my bed, which is more than I can say for my spouse.

When Gizmo dies, I will be even more alone in a house that already screams of loneliness.

When Jake got home from school, I told him the news.  He responded with a single tear that fought a grisly three minute battle to be allowed the journey down his all-boy cheek.  Once, that single tear got underway, though, he gave up his tough pretenses, and climbed right into my lap like the little boy he still is.  His head on my shoulder, he clung for nearly twenty minutes...an eternity in a preteen's world.

That night, I knew not a wink of sleep.  Wolf Teeth, were in full abundance, and the next day I struggled to pay attention at my tasks, cradling my jaw as I zoned out.  Cognitively, I certainly understood that thirteen years and some odd months was a good long time for a small dog, but my heart cried out that it was unfair...we needed this small soul just a little bit longer, please.

 He was tied up in Cory's childhood, enmeshed to the point that one could barely be seen in your mind's eye without the other.  I felt as though some cruel hand was prying loose my connections to my girl, one white knuckled finger at a time.  What would I do when I had nothing left?  Would that be the point I would succumb to all the shitty self-help books that demanded you "let go" of your dead child, moving her from center stage to the sidelines so you can live your long, happy, satisfying life without her?  Eff that.\