A Day In Jawnville: Losing a Buddy

I just made the most difficult phone call of my life. Harder than any of the cold calls I made as a teenage telemarketer interrupting people during dinner in an attempt to sell them tickets to a circus that was NOT Barnum & Bailey, but did raise money for handicapped children. Nobody wants to go to a circus that isn’t B&B. This call was to Lap of Love to schedule the death of my fifteen-and-a-half-year-old dog, Betsy.

She was Brittany when we stumbled across her picture on Petfinder.com. She was in our home with her new sister Chloe about two hours after we first saw her at the Cumberland County SPCA. Eight-week-old Brittany became Betsy because she would grow up to be far too sophisticated to be Brittany.

The woman who answered the phone was overdoing the breathy, soft, compassionate voice. Was this a call to schedule the end of my dog’s life or a weird phone sex call? I get that she deals with people in extremely emotional mental states, hell I almost broke down several times during our conversation. She just needs to dial it back a notch. I’m also pretty sure she says something like “oooooooohhhhhhh, that’s a sweeeeeeeeeeeeet name” for every pet name that she hears.

The time was set. 11:30 a.m. the next morning. Arranging the exact death of a loved one is bizarre. It’s almost godlike and there are two jobs that I would never want—President and God.

Betsy remained the same the rest of the day. Sleeping in her corner by the door, occasionally struggling to stand so that she could go outside for a bathroom break, barely eating anything. At best, she’d eat a handful or two of some Chicken-in-A-Can.

The final night with a companion pet isn’t restful. You know it’s ending, but they don’t. Their eyes look at you with the same oblivious innocence and adoration. You want to cuddle them, squeeze them, smell them knowing it’s your last night together.

My partner and I tried to sandwich Betsy between us on the floor. Betsy was never much of a cuddler, not even on her last night on earth. She’d stretch her foot-long paws straight out pushing me away several times before dawn.

Betsy had been near death with her kidney levels a few weeks back and rebounded nicely. A part of us held out hope that Betsy would get an early morning pardon by simply eating a full bowl of food or regaining a modicum of strength in her walk. Neither happened. She ate only a couple of pieces of chicken and I had to carry her back up the stairs into our house after her morning pee.

The time between 7 a.m. and Dr. Brad’s arrival at 11:30 a.m. felt like three weeks. We had done some reading on Buddhist traditions for death and dying to make the transition from this life peaceful and smooth. Thanks go Spotify, the relaxing chanting sounds of the Heart Sutra and Om Mani Padne Hum filled our living room. Incense burned, but only briefly because Betsy had an extremely sensitive nose. If I ever applied any post-shower body spray or cologne Betsy would sneeze multiple times as soon as I got into the room with her.

Tears ran.

I wrote out the check for Lap of Love before Dr. Brad arrived, as their email suggested. That’s probably the smart thing to do. Who wants to worry about writing a check after you’ve just watched one of your companions die.

I ran to Staples to buy an ink pad. I didn’t know if I wanted Betsy’s paw print for a tattoo or to frame. Paw prints don’t work as well as fingerprints. I tried a dozen times, but ended up filling up two blank sheets of paper with smeared and sloppy prints. It didn’t matter if it was a front or back paw. Neither worked. Betsy snored through all of it.

Betsy had a smell that always soothed me. Whether I was nervous about a dental procedure, work, or had a panic attack, burying my face in her polar bear-like white fur and smelling Betsy’s smell always brought about a sense of calmness.  I went into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic food container and scissors so I could capture that smell.

Tears ran.

I gently cut pieces of Betsy’s hair near her hind legs trying not to disturb her. I cut portions of her white fur and then the black in the mid section. I brought the fur up to my nose to make sure that the chunks I removed had her smell. I placed them into the container on our coffee table.

I took a deep breath and began to remove her collar. That’s when shit got really real. It felt like the end. This would be one of the final moments that I interacted with her. She remained sleeping. I remained crying. I placed her collar in the container on the table, added the paper with her smeared paw prints and then put the lid on it. I felt like I was sealing a vault when I heard the lid snap close. I could hear my partner weeping as she watched and the finality set in.

I would never again have to pull pieces of pantyhose or socks that dangled from Betsy’s butt. That happened dozens of times in her quirky 15 ½ years. She was always lucky enough for them to safely pass through her digestive system. For some reason she could never expel them completely from her sphincter. Sometimes the pantyhose would stretch a foot as I gently pulled on it. We looked like a magic act with a never-ending scarf coming out of her ass. As much as I bitched while it was happening, I’d give anything to do it again and get an additional month with Betsy.

Tears.

Dr. Brad showed up a few minutes later. Betsy never even heard him enter our house. He was as good as my friends had all said. He was gentle, considerate, compassionate. He described the process before he began. My partner courageously held Betsy’s head while fighting back tears and giving Betsy Reiki as the process took place. Dr. Brad administered a sedative and then a few minutes later the lethal overdose.

Betsy’s younger brother, Eddie, laid inches from Betsy watching with wide, curious and concerned eyes. I stayed next to him in case he got the impulse to directly supervise the process and disturb Betsy.

We had worried he’d be his usually crazy self and cause a giant distraction with barking at Dr. Brad or trying to play ball. He even tried to play with Betsy a couple of hours earlier as I carried her weakened body into the house. In his mind, any physical contact is a sign that it’s wrestle time. In this seriously sad moment, he couldn’t have been better behaved.

Dr. Brad brought a couple of blankets for Betsy’s body. He gently wrapped her and I helped him carry her fifty-four-pound body to his car. As we walked from my house to the car, a family with two small children approached. Of course, one of Betsy’s lifeless paws fell out from the blanket. The kids were startled. That couldn’t have been more Betsy. She was always innocently clumsy, even in death.

Betsy was gone. We’d get a call in a week or two to retrieve her ashes from our local vet. We gathered ourselves and took Eddie to FDR park for some fresh air.

It’s been a week. Our house is far emptier than it was a week ago. Even though Betsy slept most of the day, her presence in our tiny city house was huge.

Eddie mourned the loss of his sister by moping around and sleeping in her spots for seven straight days. This morning was the first time the he began acting like his old, energetic, and demanding self.

Our own moping and tears have decreased with each day. There are times where we rehash the past couple of months analyzing if we did the right thing for Betsy, if we could’ve done more. I think that’s always the case.

Eddie cries now when we leave him. That’s new. He’s probably going to have a new sister fairly soon because he’s never lived as the only dog and he’s already far too spoiled to be an only child.

I can’t speak highly enough about Lap of Love. If you can afford the service, $275, there is no better way to help your pet transition to the next life. There’s no stress of the vet. They are in their own home, comfortable and at ease. I’m surprised it took this long for someone to offer this service.

I still have my moments. I found the towel I used to clean up one of Betsy’s last accidents in the house. I couldn’t resist. I smelled it. Yeah, it smelled like urine, but it was Betsy’s urine. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I felt some sense of comfort from it. Damn, I miss her, but I’m thankful that I got to walk by her side for 15 ½ years. We had a good run.

In this Holiday Season take time to cuddle and love your companion pets. We’d love to be hugging Betsy and feeding her enough turkey that she’d obliterate our house for days with rank turkey-farts. And if you don’t have companion pets, love and hug your family and friends. And, if you don’t have family and friends, love and cuddle yourself. Self-love is just as important, even the non-sexual self love.