Editor’s note:
Growing up, I was never allowed a pet—or even a stuffed animal—due to my severe childhood allergies. Because of this, I never quite understood the deep attachment people have to their pets, especially cats and dogs. It always annoyed me when someone equated a newborn child with a puppy or, worse, when they tried to commiserate over the death of a loved one by saying they knew exactly how I felt because they had lost their dog. Losing a husband, mother, father, wife, sibling, or child is an entirely different kind of grief.
When I first began sharing stories on Grief Dialogues, I intentionally avoided pieces about pet loss—simply because I couldn’t relate. But then came Grandpuppy #1, Patty Pan, followed by Grandpuppy #2, Lila—the beloved dogs of my two now-adult sons. And, to my surprise, I fell in love.
That shift in perspective led me to take a leap when my dear friend, the great playwright and veterinarian Alan Stewart, wrote Christopher’s Gifts, a beautiful piece about the loss of his cherished Great Dane. I decided it was time to expand Grief Dialogues to include stories of pet loss, recognizing that love and grief come in many forms.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to call my sons and ask them to put those adorable dogs on a video call for me so I can see those sweet doggie faces!
I sat early one spring morning with my love’s head resting on my lap and his big trusting eyes looking into mine. For a clue. For a sign. For help. He seem to dissociate from what was going on with the rest of his body. It was just him and me there. In ICU. The beeps, the buzzers, the voices fading into a monotony of noise. He to me and me to him. I stroking his head, caressing his body, his magnificent body. His eyes boring into my heart and many on lookers, despite the early hour, watching the moment that was the two of us.
Do I have the strength?
It’s not often a dog like Christopher tramps through your life. He bounded into mine one summer day seven years prior. He was what I always wanted. A Jewish boy from the Bronx reaching for the biggest, most magnificent dog he could get once he could get it. Or at least adopt it. I couldn’t and wouldn’t actually buy one – morally or financially. He, as a past champion, in tact and dominant, but perhaps the most magnificent creature with whom I have ever been blessed to share my life. There was trust and silliness from the beginning. Everyone fell in love with Christopher. He just seemed the epitome of the breed – a gentle giant. A hundred and forty pounds that would scamper up to anyone and lean just hard enough so that the contact was intense and intimate. The only time he knocked someone over was when he thought he was saving my life. A teenager pulled a gun on me – albeit toy – but Christopher did not know the difference and before I could respond he had reared up, placed his feet on the kid’s shoulders and flattened him to the ground staring him down, his 30 pound head looming frighteningly close the the kid’s nose. Needless to say the gun was dropped, but what do you do in a situation like that – he received the praise he deserved. And the kid got the thrashing from his mother that he deserved.
He could do that for me.
And how do you hide a being bigger than you that is not allowed in your small Bronx apartment when you go back to visit your parents. I learned – you don’t. Because he charmed everyone he ever came into contact with.
Do what he says.
I’m not sure who was whose shadow, but I always walked taller when I walked with him. I might be short, but I can be proud. I can be confident.
I was lucky. I could take him wherever I went, I could tie him up outside stores and restaurants with impunity. I mean who will approach a challenge that big.
I learned trust. Because it was intimate and it was reciprocal. Deep, down, unbridled trust. A trust that drilled into me that became a core principle of my life with people and peers. He set the foundation. And it was strong.
I owe him this.
There was that time when he did a grand jetté that unfortunately landed him in front of a station wagon. He chose the right size car and the right owner who could help me scoop him up and bring him to the ER. Shock and a broken leg (and no damage to the car – amazing) and tears. Lots of tears. And fear that I could not afford the bill. Fortunately there is and has always been at least one zero less on veterinary bills than human bills – and even more when it is at a vet school. He fully recovered and I learned what it means to nurse a loved one. How much it rips into your heart to have your love suffer, even a little bit. It is like part of your heart its pinched away. Empathy that serves me till this day.
You have to.
And watching the connections he could make with anyone who was not intimidated. Perhaps that was his biggest gift to me. He was strong, but he showed me that the human animal bond is stronger. And cannot be broken. It only grows and each relationship fertilizes it. And more than that – if you’re lucky it blossoms out and reaches beyond you to your loved ones, family, community. And it has the strength to change the world. I could see that like it was a shot of blue light that extended from him to anyone he touched and then spread.
Be strong. For him, be strong.
Spending seven years with him was glorious, charmed and even religious. I know the concept of Chesed, a form of loving-kindness that ripples outward and I was blessed because anywhere we went that we did. And he was always in my prayers. I never wanted anything to happen to him, no matter how unrealistic that was.
He helped me survive and thrive during my internship. He came to work and the staff loved him and by extension loved me – which made life very comfortable. Same through my residency. He came, he loved, he even enjoyed students practicing physical exams on him. It was touch after all. When he developed dilated cardiomyopathy I adjusted our lives so that he could be and rest as he wanted. We found younger dogs to bring back the joy of youth and excitement to his life, something I do now. Despite all the potential dangers of that disease, he seem to coast with it. Like I said he was charmed. And I prayed for him and on some level I thought what I did and who I was protected him. Nothing bad could happen to him. He should be immune from all the ugly things that can happen. Like somehow me being a veterinary internist was a force field that protected him.
Till the night his stomach twisted and, despite his age and heart I opted for surgery. I think he would have too. At least I want to believe that. Amazingly no problems during it, fairly routine. Force field in place. Prayers being answered. It wasn’t till after that the complications started, blood pressure started to fall, alarms going off and me standing there trying to think and wanting to play rewind. And because everyone loved him all hands were on deck. With me sitting there with his magnificent 30 pound head on my lap, my hands stroking him, eyes to eyes in the largest cage available in an ICU. Me speechless, dumbfounded that this was happening. That my half a soul was shutting down. His head dissociated from the body, the blood pressure, the bleeding that was occurring and I knowing that there was no turning back. I knowing with onlookers in agreement what had to be done. Words were not said, tears were shed, I could not let anyone else do it. It was a sacred curse and gift to take a life and prevent pain and suffering. And everyone knew it was time, Everyone, perhaps other than Christopher. He would hang on till it was past good for him. And so the colored syringe was passed to me. I think someone had to place his catheterized paw in my hand. My fingers found the IV port. My eyes were shrouded in tears that I could not hold back and he just looked right into them ignoring the pain and showering me with love and memories. As I injected the solution into his veins, laying my head upon his chest to hear his heart beat slower and slower and finally stop. I embraced him in my arms. Caressed and kissed his head and sung to him, like I sang to all my patients at this time. A song I had written just for this moment.
BE SAFE, DEAR COMPANION, IN OUR LULLABY,
OUR BOND UNBROKEN, AS TIME PASSES BY.
IN THE SONG OF OUR LOVE, FOREVER, TRUE,
NOTHING IS GOING TO HARM YOU.
As everyone came up and kissed him goodbye so that flights of angels could sing thee to thy rest.
And over the years I constantly get reminders of what he taught me. How critical he was for me at that point in my professional development So many things that he taught me and served me well. Like a constant blue light of memory that warms my soul and helps me and help me help my patients and clients. Chesed. I spread his ashes in the foundation of my hospital, because he was the foundation of my hospital. A constant reminder. Some might say like a voice of God. I am just glad I hear that voice.