Losing an Old Dog (Scheduling Grief)

My husband came in from the barn, took one look at my puffy red eyes and stated sympathetically, "You've been looking at pictures again." 

I nod.  

I've lost my girl to congestive heart failure. My 165 pounds of pure adoration, my beautiful Great Dane doll, Bernadette, who was such a cheerleader for me that whenever I used the washroom, she would lie right outside the door, and thump her tail enthusiastically against the floor when she heard the toilet flush:  YAY MOM, GOOD GIRL!!  I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT!!

At the ripe old age (for a giant breed) of 9 years, 2 months and 5 days, we said good-bye.  She lived longer than my Frank (9 years, 3 weeks) and Sully (9 years, 1 month and 2 days), making our time together the longest I have ever lived with anyone in my adult life - including roommates, boyfriends, husbands.  No wonder losing her has gutted me; to date she is my most successful relationship.

Coming home - formerly my Favourite Thing To Do - is now the hardest part of my day. Vinny and I often sit in the truck, contemplating the empty house - no Bernie in the front picture window, no Bernie bowling us over at the front door, no Bernie snoring in the bedroom down the hall because her formerly keen senses have dimmed and we sometimes sneak up on her.  The sadness is paralyzing, it makes it difficult to breathe.

Which is why I schedule my grief, my breakdowns, my crying jags.  If I know that at a certain time, I'm allowed to hide in my bed under my duvet with lots of pillows, looking at photos of Bernadette as a puppy, Bernie playing with Sully, Bernie and Vinny on her last walk, and crying my heart out - then I can go about my daily responsibilities and not fall apart.  There is no avoiding this heartbreak, or going around it, but if I can schedule it, I can function.  

I am not saying that it still doesn't sucker punch me occasionally.  When the barn owner's stately Boxer, Cash, pushes his blocky head into my chest when I kneel to give him scratches, I bury my face in his neck and cry.  When I walk through the grocery store and the smell of rotisserie chicken reminds me of her last meal, I bite the inside of my cheek and leave without the things I came for.   The hazards are everywhere: opening the pantry door and seeing a stack of sardine cans bought just for her causes a physical pain, like getting punched in the gut.  For days, I couldn't cut myself a piece of cheese, because no matter how quietly you tried to do that, she could hear it anywhere in the house and rouse herself for her share.  The absence of her shuffling walk has ruined cheese for me.

The "Cheese, please" face  

She was kindness in the shape of a dog.  I had absolute faith in her gentleness, and her good nature.  Well, except for that one time that a turkey hunter, fully dressed in camouflage and hauling a bunch of decoys over his shoulder, surprised us on our walk in our field.  He stood frozen while she approached him low to the ground and growling, sounding more like a bear than a dog.  "Is she friendly?" He asked nervously.  I shrugged.  "I honestly don't know, we've never been in a spot like this."  After completing a circle around him and hearing my congenial tone, she decided there was no threat, and bounced back to me with her tail wagging and tongue lolling.  

She never, ever played with me.  Not the way dogs often will - tug of war, playful wrestling.  If I tried, she would look slightly alarmed, give up whatever toy she had, sit and study me with worried eyes.  But Sullivan was fair game.  She would hunt him, stalking him in full view, moving slowly and stealthily closer and closer, never hurrying or taking her eyes off him.  He would stand, becoming ever more nervous until he would finally break under pressure and bolt - and she would run him down (and usually over).  Almost a foot shorter than Sully, she still outweighed him by 10 pounds, and would hit him like a linebacker.  Sometimes in the hay field, the only evidence I'd see of her prey would be his four long spindly legs, waving in the air above the high grass.

Wherever she was in the house, she'd come wagging her tail when she heard me playing "Like My Dog" - a song about how the singer wishes his girlfriend loved him like his dog does:   

"I want you to love me like my dog does, baby, when I come home want you to just go crazy" - Billy Currington   

She knew that was Our Song, and that for the entire 2:54 of play time, she had my full and undivided attention (even if she had to endure my singing while getting smooched on).

She loved treats, but wouldn't push her way onto your plate.  She'd stand beside your chair, looking straight ahead - not at you, not at your food.  But if you didn't notice her and reward her self-control, she'd take a sideways step towards you, very tiny, very discreet, still looking ahead, never at you.  This tactic never failed to reap rewards.  She was also my shadow the moment I began grating cheese for a meal.  She knew she'd get the end piece, thanks to my fear of grating my fingers, but the closer I got to the end, the closer she'd edge to me, worried that I had forgotten our deal.  Sometimes her nose would end up touching my elbow as her concern grew.  Silly old dog.  

She owned the same babies (stuffed toys) her whole life.  She just carried them around, never ripping them or playing roughly with them.  The only danger they faced was being forgotten outside - visitors would often bring a rain-soaked baby in the house, and Bernie would take it back with thanks. But when the new terror Vinny arrived, she gave them all up without a peep.  Big hearted Bernadette.

Her politeness bordered on self-harm.  She would stand, in the heat of August or the bitter cold of February, outside the patio door but never bark or scratch at the door.  The risk rose greatly when Sully passed away in March; he was the spokesperson of their group of two, and wouldn't hesitate to demand service. When I'd notice her and run to let her in, exclaiming "Bernie!  Why didn't you say something?" She'd come in with the air of, "Oh, I didn't want to be a bother."  

She had some close calls.  Once she darted across the road in front of a big white delivery truck.  Even while I was screaming for her, another part of my mind was already having the conversation with my husband about Bernie being hit in the road and how we needed to bury her.  She tucked her tail all the way up under her chin, hind legs past her ears, and somehow made it across the road.  The truck was at least 100 feet past our house before he was able to slow down -shaken as badly as I was.  It didn't appear to faze her at the time, but from that day on whenever we were in the car and met any large white vehicle, she'd tremble all over.  Passing transports on the highway was a suicide mission - if they were white, you'd end up steering around 165 pounds of quivering dog in your lap.  She didn't enjoy car rides, because she was convinced murderers were everywhere, and she had to be on high alert.

Last Christmas we had a horrible freezing rainstorm.  Sullivan was already looking very much like a senior dog, picking his way carefully out of the house.  Bernadette was her usual balls-to-the-wall self, and blew out the door, promptly wiping out.  For the next month, she seemed to lose a lot of strength in her hind end, and although the vet prescribed pain medication and walks as physical therapy, she never fully recovered that WAHOO! vibe of hers.  For the first time, she didn't look invincible.  For the first time, I really understood she would leave me someday.  Little did I know that before the next Christmas, both her and Sully would be gone.  Unpacking our Christmas decorations this year means another crying jag, when I see their stockings.  

She loved walks on the farm.  She would stand in the middle of a 70 acre field, and just raise her nose into the wind, ears flapping.  She had the soul of a poet; you could almost hear her thinking: "I'm going to miss this all so much!"  Bernadette was the embodiment of being present in the moment and enjoying the world around her.

I know many things as facts:  She had a wonderful life.  She loved me and I loved her.  She knew that.  She had the best last week of her life, with walks in the woods, cheese, chicken, treats, belly rubs, and kisses.  She did not suffer.  I'm grateful for the extra months her medications bought us. Her heart condition would cause fluid build up in her lungs, effectively drowning her, and sometimes she struggled to breathe.  It was the kindest thing to do, to let her go out on a good day, with dignity and without suffering. I know all that. 

But what I wouldn't give to kiss her face again, cooing her name "Bernie, Bernie, Bern..." while rubbing her ears.  To smell the pads of her feet.  To trace the whirly spot on her bum, where all her hair grew to a point, or outline the asterisk shaped shading on the side of her coat. To giggle at her dream running, that would shake the whole bed.  To hear her come down the hall again, the way she did every single morning as soon as my husband got up, to join me for another hour in bed.   What I wouldn't give to hear that sound again.

When somebody loved me

Everything was beautiful

Every hour spent together

Lives within my heart

When she loved me

                                                               - Sarah McLachlan