A little over four years ago I published a blog after bringing home our dog, Lil Fella, a 7-year-old Jack Russell Terrier. At the time, he sat shaking nervously on my lap as he acclimated to his new home. Now, he sits in the same position as I shake nervously waiting to say goodbye.
Nearly two weeks ago, we were informed by our veterinarian that Fella is in end-stage renal failure. At an appointment where I thought he would receive a simple diagnosis of dehydration I unexpectedly learned of his terminal prognosis, and now I’m forced to confront the reality of saying goodbye to the most sincere and loyal companion I have ever known.
As I wrote all those years ago, neither Rod nor I had previously owned a dog. Until Fella came into our lives, both our childhood homes and our own after we moved in together 19 years ago only included cats. And while we had hoped Fella would choose our son, Van, to be his forever person, he instead chose me, and we’ve been nearly inseparable ever since.
Although Van and Fella were never particularly close, Fella was still a large part of Van’s formative years and he wept dutifully after I told him about Fella’s impending departure. Then, moments later, Van lovingly turned to me and said, “So what phase of the grieving process are you in?”
Denial
Remember the global pandemic? I do. I remember Fella snuggled in the exact same position he’s in right now while I feverishly (and often furiously) responded to emails from the couch. I also remember taking Zoom calls together in the office, working side-by-side on the patio, going on lunchtime walks, and watering the flowers every evening.
I remember transitioning into a hybrid role and creating new routines; habits we do not, and will not, break. Of course Fella knows this, but does the vet? Maybe we should tell the vet. Perhaps it’s he who got this whole thing wrong.
Fella won’t die. He can’t. If he leaves me, I’ll be forced to follow a new routine and he knows how much I hate that. We still have things to do. Walks to have. Plants to water. This is probably all just a huge mistake.
But if it’s not, I can only feel one thing…
Anger
We were JUST at the vet’s office for Fella’s semi-annual checkup in March. Why didn’t our vet, a seemingly glorified medical meteorologist, raise any suspicions then? Was it in an attempt to charge me for additional appointments? More tests? Two weeks ago I paid this man $815 to tell me my dog is going to die. How does he sleep at night?
Also why can’t I add Fella, or any other pet, to my Health Savings Account? Aren’t vet bills still medical expenses? Why am I forced to use a credit card when I literally have thousands saved for familial medical emergencies? Fella IS my family and this IS a medical emergency!
What’s more, why can’t I use bereavement time when he dies? My vacation days are intended to be taken when I go on an actual vacation. This is NOT a vacation. This is the death of a family member. Human Resources, act accordingly.
At my core, I am most comfortable in this phase, and anger is an emotion I’m content to live inside. Perhaps I’ll just stay here.
It seems much easier than…
Bargaining
So what if Fella is no longer eating his food; he still occasionally enjoys his treats! That’s good enough, right? He doesn’t vomit every time he drinks water; just some of the time. As long as he’s somewhat hydrated, he can’t possibly be that sick, right? Sure, he doesn’t want to play, and Rod and I recently watched him have a 20-second seizure, and just the other day I had to carry him home from a two-block walk, but I’m sure all dogs get tired sometimes and not just the ones who are dying, right?
Fella still seems happiest when I’m nearby. What if I rearrange my entire life, find a fully remote job, register him as an emotional support animal, and take him everywhere? Will he live then? Can he stay with me for a little longer?
Then again, what if I had stuck with feeding Fella the kidney food suggested to me two years ago all of the time instead of just some of the time? What if his vet would have diagnosed his consistent shaking and incessant bad breath as signs of his worsening kidney disease years ago? What if Fella’s previous owners had gotten better control of his diet when he was younger and not suggested I put shredded cheese on his dog food when we first brought him home? Could we have changed the trajectory of his life? Could I have saved him?
Listen, Universe, at this point, I’ll do just about anything. I don’t want to feel this sad. I can’t. Living with anxiety is one thing, but enduring such weighty anguish is entirely another.
So can we please just make a deal? Because I can’t possibly cope with…
Depression
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt a loss so big. For some, this feeling will resonate. For others, the thought may seem absolutely ridiculous, which is how I know these people have never loved or been loved by a dog, or a pet for that matter, whose company they genuinely enjoyed more than most human beings.
Because unless you have been chosen by an animal (yes, chosen) to be their person, I’m not sure you can fully comprehend the sheer devastation that accompanies their (impending or actual) death. Truth be told, I was once quite judgmental about how deeply others processed the passing of their furry pals, which I have come to realize was callous and downright disrespectful. To those whose relationships with their pets I may have misunderstood, I sincerely apologize (and it’s not just the bargaining talking).
For nearly two weeks, an overwhelming sorrow has all but consumed me. Every day since Fella’s diagnosis I have wept guttural, mournful, soul-sucking tears. Every day I dread leaving the house. Every day I have a hard time concentrating on work. Every day I find it difficult to accomplish small tasks. Every day I think this must be what depression feels like; like wading in a murky pond with an uneven bottom that feels so unnatural you want to get out but still fine enough that it’s OK to stay put.
And I want to. I really do. I want to stay like this, wading side-by-side with Fella whose worsening quality of life I could compassionately end but that I don’t because I’m too concerned with my own well-being. Fortunately, I know this wouldn’t be fair to Fella. Concurrently, it’s also not fair to me.
In my heart, I understand that murky pond has nothing on my pride for being a great friend, which is how I also know it’s time to get out, dry off, and finally come face-to-face with…
Acceptance
I have accepted the deterioration in Fella’s quality of life just as I have accepted he is now waking up each day only for me.
I have accepted the many adventures and mundane activities to come and how unbelievably scared I am to do any of them without Fella by my side.
I have accepted the joy Fella brought into my life - into my family’s lives - and why people sometimes get realistic portraits of their dogs’ faces tattooed on their arms.
I have accepted that a great loss can also be accompanied by a great deal of beauty and that, because of our four amazing, life-changing, emotionally rewarding, and unforgettable years together, I am saying goodbye to him as a better person than I was when we first said hello.
I have accepted that human beings truly do not deserve dogs. I have also accepted that because of our dogs’ everlasting impact, I have had the good fortune of experiencing the unwavering and constant support from animal-lovers like my husband, my son, and my beloved friends and colleagues. Many thanks to each of you from the bottom of my broken heart for your kindness, your regular check-ins, your understanding, and your love.
After I publish this blog, Rod and I will take Fella to his final veterinarian appointment, the appointment that will ultimately end his life. This, and the fact that our vet is most certainly not to blame, I have accepted, too.
In the afterlife, my only hope is that Fella quickly encounters the recently departed Tina Turner and serves proudly as her companion and biggest fan. He deserves it and so does she.
“And do I love you, my oh my. River deep, mountain high. I wanna tell you that if I ever, ever, ever, ever lost you would I cry. Oh, I love you baby (baby, baby, baby).”
Title Track: “River Deep, Mountain High,” Tina Turner. Listen here.
