When we took my father's dog in 3 days after his death, I thought he wouldn’t last the week. Soldier’s fur hadn’t been brushed or trimmed in months and his toenails were so long the pads of his feet barely touched the floor when he walked. He’s a Shepard mix (my dad always said he was half wolf) so at 16 there was (of course) also back leg weakness and muscle wasting throughout his hind quarter. He was on a day for night schedule and so could be heard pacing the living room the from dusk til dawn, eyes and body ranging around the space looking for Dad. Just like me.
I kept expecting to come into the living room in the morning and find him curled up on his bed, quietly gone in the night. But each day, there he would be upon my arrival, head lifted and one large ear cocked in the air as if to say 'have you brought me news of him?’ Him being my father, the one he loved the most.
And so, because there was no message from beyond, we would pad into the kitchen and put food and fresh water in his bowls, give him gentle pats, coo to him tenderly. Slowly, over that summer, he found his way back to a daytime waking schedule. He began to get along with our cat. He began to nuzzle the kids when they played near his bed. He was old, but peaceful. He never stopped looking for my father, but seemed to accept his new situation with affection and a contented resignation.
He went on this way for almost nine months. Then, a couple of weeks ago, things changed. He started pacing again. Now, he walks repeatedly into the corner of the room, puts his nose into the shadowed place where two walls meet and stands there for several minutes, usually until one of us walks over to gently guide him back to his bed. He started peeing all over the floor, so we put him in diapers, which he wears without complaint. He hasn't completely stopped eating, but for at least one meal a day he either forgets where the food is, or that he is hungry. His hind legs sometimes sink down and he sits with them folded at impossible angles, unable to get back up without assistance. He sleeps most of the time, but when he is awake, he is often bewildered and sad.
It is time to say goodbye. I know this.
And yet.
When my father was found by his upstairs neighbors—mostly unresponsive, but not quite gone — Solider, the dog, was lying on top of him, the last and only companion my father allowed as witness and comfort to his death.
It has been my privilege to care for this creature who cared so much for my dad, and also my responsibility to draw an end to a life that now contains too much suffering.
And yet.
When I pet his back, or reach under his chin to find the soft space of extra skin and fur that he loves to have scratched, I am with my father in a way that—after this creature is gone— I never will be again. And because I was not given the chance to say goodbye to my dad—he died in the hospital at 2 am, hours before I arrived or even knew he was there—when I say goodbye to Soldier, I will say goodbye to both of them and I am not ready.
What is the value of a life?
Who decides how and when and whether we say goodbye?
The average life expectancy when my dad tested positive for HIV in 1993 was less than two years. He lived for thirty. He had so much more time than anyone thought possible. Over those decades, I said goodbye in my mind and heart so many times in anticipation of an end that just kept not coming. I should have been ready.
And yet.
There is the imagined goodbye, and then there is the fact. You think, when you are playing out all the possible endings in your mind on any given afternoon, that your imagination will prepare you for the eventual outcome. Of course it doesn't. Even with thirty years of notice, I was not ready.
And yet.
When the goodbye comes—because it always does— and we have released the rage and the fear that comes with the anticipation of an ending. When we have shaken a fist in the air and buried our face in every pillow we could find until we are too tired to lift our heads; this is when it happens. We feel the gratitude of our love for the one who is leaving us behind. We weep and we think I am not ready because who could ever be ready, really, for this. All we can do is face it and feel it and say it and do it and walk through it.
And choose to love again.
And maybe that is the value of a life.
Thank you. I was wondering about soldier. He keeps the light on for your dad.