On Saturday morning, February 2, 2019, I went to Heirloom Cafe and sat at the brunch bar – I did not tell anyone that Reggie had died the day before. I pretended like nothing had happened when Rachel, the brunch server, asked me how I was doing. As I was spooning the creamy white foam off the top of a soy cappuccino, imagining what it would taste like if it were ice cream instead, the inspiration hit – and I had to write it down – a poem about my beloved Reggie. I pulled some paper out of my bag and began writing the words – they flowed without effort.
Tonight, the Athens Writers Association held our 5th Open Mic at Normal Books store on Prince Avenue. I was the last reader of the night. I did not tell the audience about the poem in advance, except that I wrote it at the brunch bar a few weeks ago. I read the poem, I didn’t cry, I held it together, which I was determined to do – it worked. At the end I told them, “My dog, Reggie, died on February 1st from colon cancer,” and then I sat down and thanked them.
Here is the poem, “Reggie,” that I wrote for him. I noticed a missed call from Loran Myers at Memory Garden for Pets on my phone. Sometime this week, I expect I will be picking up Reggie’s urn. I don’t feel ready. Right now, it feels better to have his spirit in the house, but it will never be easy….
By Jill Hartmann-Roberts
Your brown coat on the pillow,
Still full of your scent.
Your hooded brown raincoat laying on the floor.
Your empty dog bed –
The last night
I found you there,
Snuggled in the crocheted blankets.
Your favorite nyla bone chew toy,
Brown and worn down at the edges-
The blue rubber center still clean and intact.
Stains from your cancer on the sheets,
On the white down comforter,
On the carpet where I slowly set down my feet.
I rub the bottoms back and forth and push down,
Trying to ground my body back into the earth.
Trash bags, plastic bags, tied up,
Filled with soiled paper towels,
The smell beginning to fade after so many weeks.
A purple cushion where you took your last breath.
Your eyes were open –
They went glassy as you left me.
Her stethoscope against your chest –
You weren’t moving.
“He’s gone,” the vet said.
The rabies tag on your black harness,
The blue Star of David and chain choke collars
Hanging on a peg,
Your Georgia Bulldogs canvas leash with the broken latch.
On the last day of Reggie Roberts’s life, Friday, February 1, 2019, the sun was shining and the temperature was warm. When I woke up, he was sleeping in Lizzie’s dog bed, snuggled in the blankets, breathing air in and out, as he had every other day of his life with us, living in the moment, without worry, without fear – except, this morning, would be the last time. I’m glad he didn’t know…I’m glad that as he rested in the bed where his beloved Lizzie used to sleep, peaceful and fearless, he didn’t know that it would be for the last time.
I sat by the bed and watched him for several minutes – I did not disturb him as I went through my daily morning cleanup of the bathroom floor – but he stirred and woke up on his own and resettled on top of the plastic trash bags protecting the carpet, as he did every morning, with his head between his paws, watching me with that guilty look in his eyes. I wish he did not feel guilty – he had nothing to feel guilty about – it wasn’t his fault.
It was cancer.
If there is any fault, it is the fault of the cancer. But that doesn’t make anyone feel better, nor does it bring him back.
Downstairs, as I did every other morning, even though it wouldn’t matter now, I gave Reggie his medications and his canned food – he ate it the same as he did every day. And that killed me – he was still eating, he still looked at me the same way he did on any other day, he walked like any other day, wagged his tail when I put on his brown coat and his harness, ready to get into the car and drive wherever I would take him.
He was alive, and I was making the decision to end his life.
I don’t know how, or why, I’ve had to do this twice in the past few months, once for Lizzie in October, and once for Reggie at the end of last month, but I know, I’m not alone. My next-door neighbor, Pennie, has become a good friend in the past year, but even before we got to know each other better, we talked about our dogs all the time. I remember she told me the painful story of losing her rescue boxers all in one year many years ago, and recently, in the spring and summer of 2017, she lost two of her three dogs, Suzie and Daisy. She told me the story of losing one of her dogs at home, without warning, in detail, and it pained me to hear about what they went through. I have a friend I met through dog rescue circles in San Diego, named Lorri, and a few years ago she lost two of her beagles and one of her other rescue cats all in one year, just a few months apart.
This happens all the time. And yet like anything else in life, that happens to a lot of people, if not to everyone, until it happens to you, there is no way to know exactly how hard it is.
Even though I treated that Friday morning like any other day in front of Reggie, nothing around me looked the same – not the house, not the car, not the road in front of me, or the familiar buildings we drove by – every car around us seemed unreal. Walking into Jittery Joe’s felt like an out-of-body experience with Reggie in the stroller, looking around him. Every time someone looked at him in the stroller and smiled, I felt a deep ache in my chest, literally. When I ordered a latte, and asked for water for Reggie, I tried not to think about how he would not be back – I did not want to waste a single minute thinking about how many hours I had left with him before 1:30 pm.
It was about 9 am.
There was a man, maybe my age, with glasses on the end of his nose, short dark hair, wearing casual sports clothes sitting by the window across from the long glass table where I sat down and parked Reggie’s stroller next to me. I pulled it as close to me as possible. When I looked toward the window, the man looked as if he recognized us, but when he smiled and then returned his attention back to his laptop, I realized I was probably imagining that because I had gotten so used to people admiring Reggie, I usually never thought about whether or not I knew people or if they were simply other regular customers.
But today felt so different, like I had to take in every little detail with such attention and care. It all seemed much more important to not forget.
I leaned my head down on Reggie’s head and pet him and kissed him. I hope no one saw that tears started to fall, but I had to stop, I had to for Reggie. I did. I had brought my laptop but I didn’t feel like I could write. I lifted him up out of the stroller and put him in my lap and just held him, hugged him, kissed him, breathed in his scent, rubbed my cheek against his fur, and slowly rocked him back and forth. I may have even hummed the lullaby I hummed for Toby, and for Lizzie, the night before I put them to sleep, in 2011 and 2018, respectively. My voice was so hoarse from crying for so many days, so many months, I could not hear much of anything coming out of my throat. After a long while, with Reggie still in my lap, I opened the laptop. Somehow I found the strength to write…for Reggie.
Before I knew it, two hours went by. It’s all a blur now, but eventually I realized that I’d been sitting there with Reggie in my lap, sipping my latte, for a long time. With a heavy heart, I lifted him from my lap and returned him to the stroller and wheeled him out of Epps Bridge Jittery Joes for the last time.
From there, I drove Reggie to Bishop Park, where Audie and I used to walk both dogs often on days like this. I didn’t leave him in the stroller. I lifted him out and let him walk on the path for as long as he could manage, at his own pace. I took video of him walking, as I had many times in the past month on our trips to state parks. I knew from experience how much it would mean to me over the years to be able to watch him – alive and moving.
He took his time, sometimes trotting, sometimes walking slowly. He marked a lot, he pooped a lot. He stopped to smell trees and leaves and grass. Sometimes he sat, upright, to pause and rest. We did two loops around the park before he started breathing more heavily and I decided he’d had enough on his own – I wanted him to have energy for the next two hours, before the vet came to the house.
For the third and last loop, I returned him to the stroller and he lay down as we walked the path of Bishop Park for the last time.
It was ten after 12, less than 2 hours until we had to be back home to wait for Dr. Stoppe.
Time for Reggie’s last meal.
I’d been pondering all morning where to take him. Neither Toby nor Lizzie got to have a last meal, not the kind I wanted Reggie to have, the kind they all tell you to give your dog – ice cream, pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers, French fries…”the kitchen sink.” With Toby, I tried, but he was so weak, he could barely move, much less eat. With Lizzie, there was no time to think. She did not want to eat anything on the morning of October 13, 2018 and left the salmon and tuna in her food bowl untouched as I raced to get her to Hope as fast as I could to end her suffering.
With Reggie, he was calm, and there was time, not much, but this was my last chance to give one of my dogs that gift of a “last supper” so to speak.
When I thought about it, I realized that Reggie deserved the best, and the best was my favorite place in Athens – the Heirloom Cafe. No fast food, Five Guys Burger was not good enough for Reggie – he deserved grass-fed beef, the good stuff.
There were only a few other customers inside when I told the hostess I had Reggie with me in the stroller. We had the patio to ourselves. Henry, one of my favorite people, was working the lunch shift but he was not our server. John, who is a very nice person, works the bar on weekdays, I believe, I never have seen him there on a weekend in all the years I was a brunch customer. He had never met Reggie, and I didn’t tell him what was going on, just that we only had about 45 minutes and so he took our order right away – a grass fed burger with fries for Reggie – no toppings and the same for me without the bun and the cheese.
I took Reggie out of the stroller and placed him in my lap again, wanting to hold him for every single minute possible in this last hour and a half of his life. Before the food came, we had a surprise visitor – my friend, Mary, whom I met at the Heirloom brunch bar a couple of years ago, exited the cafe with a work friend. She came over to hug me and I did tell her that I was putting Reggie to sleep. She hugged me tighter. Mary is a dog and cat lover and a pet sitter – I didn’t need to explain to her how I was feeling.
I asked Mary to take a photo of Reggie and me at the table, she took several, and when our food came she watched as Reggie gobbled up a few bites of hamburger and about 8 French fries. It made me so happy to see him eating and enjoying the people food.
After Mary left, Reggie had more trouble eating, meaning he didn’t eat anything. I kept trying to feed him smaller bits of French fries and smaller pieces of the burger but he turned his head away, or sniffed the pieces and refused the food. I suppose the rich, heavy food hurt his stomach – it’s not as if the colon cancer or the massive, ulcerated tumor cared that he deserved to enjoy this kind of treat that would be his last. Eventually I stopped trying, and just picked at my own food. I didn’t have much of an appetite, either. As 1:00 approached, I asked John for a check and a box for all the leftovers and headed home.
When we got there, Audie’s car was parked on the street (I was confused as to why he didn’t park in the driveway, but no matter). He was sitting in the driver’s seat texting or doing something on his phone when I pulled into the garage, head-in (I usually back in, I didn’t bother to worry about it that day). Dr. Stoppe wasn’t there yet, and I told Audie I wanted to take Reggie on a last walk around his neighborhood. He agreed and I let him take the leash. Audie commented on how weak Reggie looked, which he had told me he’d noticed the day before when he was walking him during some of the visits I’d granted him with Reggie in the last several weeks before he died.
Reggie didn’t make it very far, and we walked at a snail’s pace. I couldn’t help but think about all the walks over the years when I could barely keep up with Reggie, as he pulled Lizzie behind, with the dog leashes that Audie tied together into one to keep the two of them together – Reggie pulling Lizzie along so she didn’t fall behind.
And now we were awkwardly, almost silently, taking Reggie on his very last walk, and with that ending the era of our life with our dogs, altogether.
When we saw the car driving down the street, I said to Audie, “that must be Dr. Stoppe.”
It was, the car pulled up the driveway, and Dr. Stoppe and Tristan, one of the head vet techs, exited the Subaru and flipped the trunk, removing the supplies they needed for the euthanasia.
I apologized for the mess and the odor when they entered the house. I showed them upstairs to my sitting room, where Toby’s dog bed waited for Reggie to say goodbye as he did at home, on the same bed, back in 2011. It was serendipity, in a sad way, that my first dog, and my last dog, would go to sleep in the same way, and in the same place, albeit in a different home.
I had hoped Reggie would feel more comfortable at home, and he was, but he recognized Dr. Stoppe and Tristan and was very aware something was going on that affected him, and he began to shake. It was very hard, but I knew it would have been worse at the clinic. At least here he was home, and Audie and I were there with him.
Dr. Stoppe had brought the clay to make paw prints for Reggie and we watched as a nervous Reggie allowed Tristan to press his paw in each circle of clay, one paw print for each of us. What was touching was that they’d already carved his name, “Reggie,” into the clay before they came.
We pet Reggie, while Dr. Stoppe prepped him for the procedure, though he panted and shook, and it was heartbreaking, but the worst part, and the best part, for me, was watching as Reggie walked over to Audie, his original human, and cuddled up next to him for protection. Reggie looked over at me, and at the vets, and back at me, as he huddled in Audie’s arms, and I knew, no matter what happened, or had happened, I did the right thing by bringing Audie home to be with Reggie when it was time to say goodbye. I knew it would be what Reggie needed, and what Reggie deserved, and I was right. I could not bear the thought of Reggie not saying goodbye to his daddy, and I knew that if our roles were reversed, I’d want to be with my dog when he died.
As I have often said, years from now, all that will matter to me is that I behaved in a way where I will look myself in the mirror, and know that when Reggie, and Lizzie, died, I did what was right.
For some reason, I felt much more stoic, or more resigned, or stronger, or more something this time. With Lizzie, I cried as I said goodbye, but this time, I did not. Neither did Audie. It happened much more quickly, there was less time, because Dr. Stoppe and Tristan had to return to the clinic. The whole process of sedating Reggie, which made him sleep, with his eyes open, happened quickly, although it was difficult to get the catheter in originally, which was why it was hard to see him so scared and aware – Dr. Stoppe assured us he’d be okay, once he was sedated, everything would be fine.
She was right, his breathing calmed down and he rested, although it was unnerving to see his eyes open as he slept. Lizzie’s and Toby’s eyes had been closed.
“Are you ready?” she asked us. I didn’t look at Audie but we both nodded and said, “Yes.”
I can’t speak for Audie, but I was never going to be ready, it was just that I knew there was no other choice but to resign to be ready to let Reggie go.
As Dr. Stoppe gave him the drug, Audie being the scientist asked them what drug they were giving him. It started with a “B,” I think, or a “P.” I don’t remember the name).
“It’s okay, Reggie. You’re going to see Lizzie and Toby soon. It’s okay, Reggie.” I pet him and reassured him as she administered the drug.
I knew when he was gone, even before she put the stethoscope to his chest and eerily, the same way she did for Lizzie on October 13th, said aloud, “He’s gone.”
His eyes had gone glassy, his chest had stopped moving, before I heard the words.
Last time, I cried with my head on Lizzie’s. This time, no tears came. The numbness came immediately. And suddenly I was thinking to myself it would be okay, that he was with Lizzie and Toby, and at peace, and I kissed him, and all I could say was, “He feels so warm.”
“It takes a while,” the doctor told me (meaning for the body temperature to change).
Audie kept saying to me we’d done the right thing in a very matter-of-fact way. It was strange. It was not that I didn’t know that, and yet, I think he needed to hear himself say it aloud. We all grieve in our own way. He seemed calmer than he did last time, too, and we only had a few minutes before Dr. Stoppe asked us again, “Are you ready for me to take him?”
I didn’t fight it, and I reminded her Loran Myers from Memory Garden would be picking him up at the vet later to take him for the after-death procedures. I told Dr. Stoppe I wanted to be able to pick out an urn this time (with Lizzie we did not get to do that, though the wooden box is very pretty).
Tristan wrapped Reggie’s behind in a giant gauze pad and put him in Dr. Stoppe’s arms – two-handed, they carried him downstairs and Audie and I followed. We watched them put Reggie’s still body in the trunk of the car, and the last thing the doctor said to me was to let them know if I needed anything.
Audie turned to me again to tell me that I had done the right thing, that Reggie was suffering, or that we couldn’t let him suffer, same difference. Audie did not hug me, he did not offer to stay and talk, he just said he had a faculty meeting and then a retirement party that night.
“Take care of yourself,” he said flatly as he walked down the driveway to his car.
I watched his car pull away and drive down the street, to the stop sign, right turn signal on, and then he turned right, and was gone.
I stood, standing there, for a long time, staring at the street. I couldn’t even move. My body had gone into shock, or my brain, or both. I didn’t cry. I felt as if I was in a dream, watching myself stand there. I heard the sounds of cars, the sounds of my next-door neighbor’s daughter, S.J. and her friend talking in their driveway, the sounds of Doug, across the street, getting in and out of his car, and opening and closing the garage door.
Eventually, maybe half an hour later, my feet hurt, and my legs were hurting so I sat down, right there in the driveway, not talking, not crying, not even thinking. I just sat, the rest of the day, with the sun on my face and the wind blowing now and then, and did not move, except to reposition myself from the pain of sitting on concrete, but I could almost not feel that, either. Eventually my neighbor, Pennie, pulled up into her driveway in her white car, into her garage, but she did not come over. I knew she knew I needed to be alone.
As it grew later, I could tell it would be dark within an hour or so. I stood up and stared at the sliding glass door and I realized why I probably had stayed in the driveway so long:
I did not want to walk back into that house. I’d be alone, without Reggie, without Lizzie, without Audie, without anyone.
I did not want to walk inside – I’d known for weeks every time I pulled up the driveway and saw Reggie waiting for me on the other side of the glass that this day would come, and I’d be dreading it, and now it was here. I wasn’t ready, I’d never be ready, so I stayed, in shock, avoiding it, for as long as I could, until I couldn’t anymore. My body hurt too much from the concrete – everywhere – and it was never going to get easier. The dogs, Lizzie and Reggie, filled that house up, still, in every way that mattered, except they were not there, and never would be.
And then, there were none.
Two weeks have passed, and Audie and I have each ordered our urns and paw prints from Mr. Myers. We have not received them yet, and unlike the day we ordered my gravestone and golden cast paw print for Toby, along with a digitized version in a silver charm, Audie and I will be going alone, separately, to pick up our respective urns and paw prints.
When Lizzie died, it took many weeks for me to touch her things, and for some reason, this time, I needed to collect Reggie’s things immediately to donate to Hope. The day after he died, that Saturday, February 2nd, I spent most of the day doing that, and then robotically cleaning all the surfaces of the house in shifts, of one hour at a time, since it hurt my body too much to do it all at once. When I went to bed that night, my body hurt all over from exerting more physical activity than I’m supposed to, but I didn’t care.
It was better than the emotional pain I felt. The grief hit me so quickly, so hard – and I needed to push it away, push it down, quickly.
On Valentine’s Day, I hired Certified Clean Care to take care of the caked on and hardened feces and blood left behind from Reggie’s cancer, along with the years of buildup of dirt and red clay and urine and feces accidents that had occurred when one, or both of us, didn’t get home in time to take the dogs out, or when we were on a trip and came home to find the pet sitter had not cleaned it up – which didn’t matter anymore, and didn’t matter much then. When you have rescue dogs, especially dogs with medical issues, these things happen. I knew there’d be a day, this day, to clean it all up, as if it never happened. And it worked, the floors and carpets look practically new, especially the hardwood floors and all the kitchen and bathroom tiles. The carpets look fairly new, and the air is clean to breathe.
I would have done it anyway, myself, because I promised Audie I would, and I always keep my word, but it also felt like a gift to myself, when it was done, for all the months and months of taking care of both Reggie and Lizzie at the end of their respective lives. I felt I had earned this fresh start, with fresh carpet, fresh floors, fresh air and a clearer mind. Or as close to that as possible.
A few days earlier, I had finally decided it was time to clean the bedding – my blankets and sheets that Reggie had soiled in the last few days of his life when he’d been on the bed with me. For some reason, this was hard – you’d think it would be the first thing I’d want to clean, even before the floors and the carpets, but for whatever reason, it was the hardest thing to let go of – I couldn’t smell anything anyway, but visually, you would think I wouldn’t want to see it – the spots and stains the tumor left behind. Or, more likely, I was just too exhausted – that’s probably it, mostly. My same friend, pet sitter Mary, had told me about a wash and fold on Prince Avenue that was willing to wash pet-related stains – a dry cleaners wouldn’t do it, she said. It took a couple of bags to fit in all the bedding – sheets and blankets and comforter. (Thankfully, there was no damage to the mattress or mattress cover. My tiny throw pillow – I just threw it away).
The lady who works at the laundry, Michelle, was incredibly empathetic and a dog lover. She told me she’d been through something like this once, too. Her kindness made a world of difference – I felt embarrassed walking in, thinking of how to explain what happened – and she took care of all that right away. When I picked up the bedding on Valentine’s Day, while the other guys were taking care of the floors, Michelle showed me the bedding and it was as if nothing had happened – there were no stains, no spots, as if the cancer – and Reggie – had never happened, either.
Many friends have sent kind messages and texts. Hope Animal Medical Center sent me a sympathy card, as they had done with Lizzie, with signatures and notes from Dr. Clifton, Dr. Jeni, Dr. Stoppe, Leah, Cheyenne and Nicole.
That was when the tears came the hardest.
It was not the first time they came. It took about 4-5 days, but one morning I woke up and Reggie’s brown coat was there, beside me, on the bed. I picked it up and cradled it, and put my nose to the material. I could still smell his scent, and then it came out, the grief, the screaming of his name, the anger, the loss, the emptiness of all the multiple losses: Audie, Toby, Lizzie, Reggie, my marriage, the life I had sacrificed everything for when I left San Diego to come to Athens, and everything in between.
And then, I got in the shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and it was over, for the time being. Until it happened off and on, the past two weeks, sometimes while driving, sometimes sitting in the car in the garage, sometimes in the bathtub, sometimes when I look at the photos sent by my friend, Suzanne, of Lizzie and Reggie, with their paw prints and Lizzie’s urn, waiting for Reggie’s to join it – and then I can’t stop crying. I look around the room, my favorite room in the house, the dogs’ favorite room, too, and all I see are paw prints and photographs and pictures and – nothing – nothing but memories of the most beautiful, most loving, most amazing three dogs this world has ever seen.
I know they are together, across the Rainbow Bridge, the way they used to be, since the day they came together as a family, with Audie and me, on December 22, 2009.
I believe in the poem, the legend, and I know someday, somehow, I will find my way back to them, as I cross the bridge myself. There they will be in the valley of dogs long past, and they will see me, our eyes will meet, their ears will perk up, their tails will wag, and suddenly, they will start running toward me. And pain free, like I once was, myself, long ago, I will run to meet them, and I will fall to my knees, opening my arms, as they jump into my lap, put their paws on my chest and lick my face until we stand up, together, and they follow behind me, as I walk into the valley to be with the creatures that I love most in this whole world…and always will.
I remember Madison telling me this the day after Lizzie died in October of last year. I remember how I felt empathy…knowing that feeling that nothing could happen to take my dog away from me, that Lizzie and Reggie would not die. I used to tell myself that all the time because the thought of losing them and saying goodbye was just too painful to bear.
I’m sitting with Reggie in my lap, at 10:30 AM on February 1, 2019, and in 3 hours, Dr. Stoppe is coming to the house to put him to sleep.
My dog is not going to live forever. And I’m sitting here working up the strength to face it.
Yesterday, I took Reggie to the vet one last time because I just needed to do that. I needed, one more time, for her to tell me that it was time.
I will keep this brief this morning because I want to spend more time with Reggie and take him outside in the fresh air. There will be plenty of time to write, from now on, without him sitting in my lap here at Jittery Joe’s.
I asked Dr. Stoppe if it were her dog, if Reggie were her dog, would she let him go now. She said she would.
I asked her to take his blood to check his red blood cell count and it was normal. But, she showed me pictures/X-rays of Reggie’s lungs and colon in July 2017. The lungs were black in the radiograph: normal. So was the colon.
Now, in January, the colon showed signs of the tumor growing and the opening to his rectum getting smaller. And his lungs were filled up with white spots.
Without a biopsy they can’t be certain she said, but given the biopsy of the carcinoma and the likelihood of metastasis, she was 99% sure that those were cancer cells spreading in the lungs.
I think I must have asked her the same question, “Would you let him go tomorrow if Reggie were your dog?” at least 4 times. Maybe I needed it repeated to me to sink in.
She said if he kept excreting liquids, the only thing he could pass, I could give him one more week, or the weekend, and check him Monday, but when I asked if she thought it would be more than a week before it became high risk, and/or he began to suffer, she did not feel it would be more than a week.
She said that when she was a tech, a veterinarian once told her that she’d rather let her dog go two weeks too early than one day too late. At the time, Dr. Stoppe thought that sounded terrible, but now, as a vet, she thinks that it often is better to let them go when they are having more good days than bad days, still, than to wait for the worst days.
Reggie is declining quickly, she told me, but she could not give me an exact timeline. Only what she would do, and what she thought was best for him, given the decline in his quality of life.
He’s still eating, he’s still walking, he’s still responsive to petting and affection, and alert.
This is hell.
If I had an Xray with my lungs filled with tumors growing and one in my colon, with a risk of perforation, I would want my mom to let me go, and I try to think about that. Not being selfish is hard at a time like this.
I told her to keep our appointment to come over and put him to sleep.
I asked her to take Reggie in the back to say goodbye to everyone, since he wouldn’t be back at Hope again. At least, not until she brings him back today after he’s gone.
Morgan at the front desk came up as we checked out and told me no charge for the visit or bloodwork. They are amazing, they didn’t have to do that.
She gave me a hug and told me I could come visit them anytime, and I thanked her for all they had done for me and the dogs. Morgan walked around the front counter and came up to Reggie, leaned down, and fighting back tears, like me, pet him and said what a good dog he is, and what a good boy he is, and then she said, “You’re going to see your sister soon, you’ll like that, you’ve missed her.”
I took Reggie to Barnes and Noble to the Read-In after that and everyone was so happy to see him, and he was happy to see them. His daddy came to the store to see him after it was over and I let Audie spend a lot of time walking him around the store, in the stroller, mostly by himself. I sat with them for a short time, but it was painful, and I know I did the right thing for them, but…it was extremely painful. Still, we decided on two urns and two paw prints, like we did with Lizzie. I have to follow up on that with Mr. Meyers at the Memory Garden, he was so kind on the phone. He is wonderful, and made me feel cared about, just like he did with Toby.
Toby went to sleep on his dog bed, on the purple cushion. I plan to do the same for Reggie. He was shaking and nervous at the vet yesterday. That’s why I want to let him go at home, so he won’t go through that. So his last memory will be in his home, where he feels safe, and comforted.
I do not know how to look at life ahead. When I woke up this morning, Reggie was in Lizzie’s dog bed, in the bedroom. I feel his chest heaving up and down against my stomach and my legs. He’s such a part of me now, and I hope someday, like the poem says, I will see all three of my dogs again…
“The Rainbow Bridge”
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Audie taught me that many years ago – it is his philosophy, and that of many others, so I’ve heard.
It’s not something I find as easy to do – it doesn’t come to me naturally to “push the envelope” and break the rules. I’m a stickler for rules, too much so sometimes – even when I should break the rules, I have trouble doing so. It makes me uncomfortable, I fear getting in trouble. Big trouble.
No, following the rules is my comfort zone.
And then, today, with Reggie, I did not do that.
“Ask forgiveness not permission,” I said to myself (like he taught you).
And so I did, and I opened the door to Dr. Niknafs’ office and rolled Reggie right into the waiting room.
I didn’t ask permission, I didn’t even blink. I just walked right up to the sign-in sheet and wrote down my name. There were several people in the waiting area, one lady gave me a “what is that dog doing in here?” look, but, everyone else was taken with him, and then all of a sudden, that lady smiled, too!
Hmmm, interesting. Have to remember that.
I walked to the chair in the corner, set my books on a side table, and sat down, pulling Reggie’s stroller close to me. The lady in the chair next door flashed me a big grin and said hello to Reggie. I moved his stroller closer to her and asked her if she’d like to pet him.
Her name was Cheryl, and she was all over petting Reggie.
“You smell my dog, don’t you…” she said as she pet him. “You smell my Sophie.”
We had to wait a while. They were busy today, more than I remember from past visits.
“Jill?” I heard my name called.
I got up, gathered my things, and walked right up to the red-haired nurse and said, “This is Reggie, he’s my emotional support animal.” Just like that.
And, surprisingly, I needed no forgiveness, or permission. She just “oooh’ed” and “aww’d” like most people do and all was well.
Dr. Niknafs, and Tyler and the nurse’s mom (I forgot to ask their names) were just as kind. I especially appreciated that the doctor was so understanding.
When I checked out, the older nurse, the younger redhead’s mom as it turns out, had a hard time – she couldn’t look at Reggie without tearing up.
As it turned out, she too had a story to tell, about three older dogs of her own, and what was worse, she didn’t realize until recently, you could, and should, be with your dog, at the end. I didn’t even know people couldn’t, but she had had experiences in the past where they took her dog in the back and put him to sleep, alone.
“No, you need to be the last person they see,” she said, “when they die, they need to know the person they love is right there with them.”
I agree with that, and I can’t imagine it any other way, but if your dog is in the ER or the hospital, it definitely would not happen that way.
I hope that does not happen to Reggie. I’m trying to avoid that, even if it means I lose him sooner.
We are at Jittery Joe’s now and he’s staring at me, wanting my lunch. I’m glad to see that he has an appetite. We stopped at Marti’s at Midday after Dr. Niknafs to get some tuna salad.
Again, I did not ask for permission (or forgiveness), and I wheeled Reggie into the cafe with me. I’d done that once before, so it was not as risky, but, this was only the second time, and the first time, I did ask permission.
I also had an ulterior motive for stopping at Marti’s at Midday today – the ladies that work there love him. And even though I couldn’t bring myself to say these are his last few days, it gave me happiness to see Kim, the manager, come over especially to say hello. I wish more of the people we knew had been there, especially the owner, Marti, who took to Reggie right away, but it was late in the day and long after lunchtime. Better, for us, I’m sure – it would have been more difficult to bring Reggie inside with a long line and throngs of people at the counter.
Reggie is having a good day today.
A very good day.
Such a good day that I don’t want to do it.
Too good of a day to imagine it – his best day in Athens since early December.
He’s more like he was a few months ago, than he was in the last few days. He’s even gone the whole day without any accidents – that hasn’t happened in a while, where I am able to handle this by just taking him out to the bathroom every hour or so.
(Disclaimer – I wrote this earlier in the day, and he did have an accident in the stroller, all over his beautiful green sweater. Oh well. Only one today, but in the wrong place)
He’s awake and interacting with people, barking for my food, barking at another dog, even his walk, my God, it was quick, not slow and unsteady, but like his normal gait, normal speed.
(Later in the day I took him to Barnes and Noble and walked him down the sidewalk to the post office first. He was strutting at his old speed, keeping up with me and the stroller, and then halfway there, he slowed down again, to his latest slower pace. But, then he picked up the pace again for the homestretch. On the way back to the store, I put him in the stroller again. I didn’t want to push him too much. He’d had a good walk, a short one, but a great one. That was enough for one night).
My friend, Wendy, who is a vet, visited with us in between appointments today and she told me that happens, people do it too. They rally at the end and have this amazingly good day. (I read about it in my colleague Lisa’s book, Words at the Threshold, also)
Are there more bad days than good days is the question. Eventually there are more bad than good. With Reggie, it’s hard to say. When I’ve taken him on the road trips, they were all good days, like today. Saturday started off as a good day and by evening was terrible, and then Sunday was better. Monday and Tuesday were rough days.
Today has been amazing – like his old self (except for the diarrhea).
Should I do the math? Divide the days into halves? Or into hours? This many hours he was great, and then that many hours he was terrible.
2 1/2 good days, 2 1/2 bad days, I told Wendy.
When I started writing this post today at 4 pm, so far it had been all “good hours.”
We left the house around 9:30 am so…that’s almost 8 good hours.
I’m grateful for Reggie having such a good day.
It’s already 6 pm, today went by too fast. Way too fast.
Why is it the hours go by fastest when you want them most to drag out?
He’s been so happy today. I’m so glad for that.
He deserves it.
We spent two hours at Barnes and Noble, speaking of time flying by. I didn’t take any new photos tonight, as I usually do, but he sat in the stroller the whole time and did not cry to warn me to rush him outside. When was the last time he went 2 hours? I can’t remember. He was so peaceful as I drank my tall soy latte and walked around the store, finally settling down to look through a book more closely, and I stroked him with one hand while he rested – that’s how the time went by so fast – it was so normal, as if nothing were wrong, as if nothing were going to change in a short time from now.
At home, I watched Reggie scarf down the prescription food and then hide under the table again in his beautiful brown coat that his daddy gave him many years ago.
I am sitting here having doubt – nothing but doubt – that I’m making the wrong decision if I let him go on Friday.
Reggie had such a good day.
The best day he’s had at home in weeks.
According to the books, that means the end is near.
Reggie is standing up underneath my chair as I eat my dinner I just sat down to eat, he is looking up at me, hoping I’ll drop something for him to eat.
Just like he always did when he was not sick – like he did just a month ago, before his sickness accelerated so quickly.
What does it mean?
I wish I knew.
Why do we have to play God – “I feel like I’m killing my dog,” I told my friend today.
“You are,” she said, “it’s the worst decision we ever have to make.”
She also said it’s a gift to free them from pain, and she’s right.
But he’s not in pain right now. He hasn’t been all day.
I feel confused, and I don’t want to make a mistake. I don’t want to let him go if I don’t have to…but…I know what Dr. Stoppe said yesterday, I know what she saw. What she told me.
I’m glad I’m bringing him back tomorrow. We can talk more. So I can be sure. Sure I’m doing the right thing for Reggie.
He’s given up now, no food from me, but he’s laying by my feet, close to me, I can hear him breathing – it’s raspy, but not as bad as it’s been. More like snoring.
When I think of all the people who have loved on Reggie today: Ashley at Oconee Wellness, Cheryl and the nurses and Tyler at Dr. Niknafs, my friend, Wendy and my friend, Marcy (also a vet – we had coffee dates with 2 vet friends today), and the ladies at Marti’s…
No matter what happens tomorrow, no matter what happens on Friday…
Today, Reggie had the best day.
The best kind of day of all – the kind filled with love.
“My dog, Toby, is buried there. We didn’t have time to call with Lizzie. I’d like to go there if that’s okay. I like him, he’s very nice.”
“I can have Terry call over there and find out,” she answered.
I’ve had this conversation four times this week, well, not exactly. I’ve had a version of this conversation four times this week – but this time – it’s for real.
We believe. If I want to be safe. If I want to avoid a serious emergency on the weekend or at night one day next week where I’d have no choice but to rush him to the hospital – the last place I want to take him to say goodbye.
I felt sick – for the third time – but this time – it didn’t end with any relief. “We don’t have to do it today.”
Even though I’m bringing him back one more time, Thursday late afternoon, just to be sure, I think she’s sure. She knows I don’t want to let go, and she knows why.
He is the last of my family members I love in Athens (yes, I know he’s not human, but he’s my baby) and he is the last tie to my marriage. I can’t bear thinking about this being the ending of all of the pieces of the last decade of my life that I love.
I can’t believe this is happening. But it is.
Last night, Reggie didn’t want to eat. He was bleeding from the rectum everywhere. It was on the bedsheets, on my pajamas, on the floors. His rear end and his tail looked pink and raw and inflamed. Something had happened, something with the tumor.
When I woke up this morning there were more blood spots in the bathroom than I’d ever seen. It was hard to get him to eat. It took a few hours after trying dog food, chicken, and canned salmon and he finally ate some chicken, but he wasn’t happy. He lay by the glass door for a long time, and he was still there when I came home off and on during the day. (I wish I could have brought him everywhere).
I’ve felt sick to my stomach and had panic attacks constantly. I’m exhausted, I can’t remember ever being so tired.
It is hard to breathe. My breath catches in my chest, my heart races, I wake up in panic in the middle of the night and can’t sleep. I cry, often, and I think to myself, I am not going to get over this.
This dog is my everything. Much like the other two. Much like their daddy was. And I just can’t imagine all four of them being gone.
When I brought Reggie in to Hope Animal Medical Center today, walking on the leash, not in the stroller, he didn’t want to go into the exam room. He must be tired of it, but I have to be sure, and they said if I needed to come every few days right now, they were happy to keep checking him.
I’m glad – I got an extra week and two more road trips to state parks with Reggie.
Cheyenne, one of the vet techs, picked up Reggie in the lobby and carried him into the exam room. His eyes looked as big as golf balls with his pointed ears sticking up – he’s lost so much weight, his head looks smaller now.
He was 18 pounds exactly, she told me, as she put him on the table, the blood stains from his rectum on her scrubs, much like I’d found on my clothes and bedding.
(I’m losing my breath as I write this)
It’s all a blur right now. But I know what Dr. Stoppe said, after she examined him, she told me his colon felt very thick, like the mass had gotten bigger or as if there was poop stuck that was not coming out. She asked if she could take him back for some pictures.
When she came back, she told me the colon had a thread of space, and the rest was blocked (the mass tumor must have grown) and was pressing on his rectum so it made him feel like he had to go all the time. Even if he didn’t. Thus, the straining which had been worrying me. She said he was close – the danger being that the rectum could perforate and he could get so sick, he’d have to be put down immediately. The risk of an impacted bowel is high and she said he probably only had a couple days before a perforation occurred – but she couldn’t be sure.
When I asked about his lungs, she said they look worse – much worse – there are many more small tumors, and because he’s losing so much blood from the colon, he might be anemic and with a lower red blood cell count, it would be harder for him to breathe.
We didn’t take his blood to check, because at this point, it didn’t matter if he was anemic.
As she said, “He’s getting close to time.”
She was really telling me it was time. I knew that.
I went through each of his medicines to see if I had enough to get through the next few days. She said I should try to feed him baby food, if he’d take it, but then, she found something better: canned wet food that they give to hospitalized dogs. He just lapped that up, right out of the can, in the exam room!
So she sent me home with some cans of that instead and told me to get Miralax to add to his other laxative. She also gave me prescription steroid cream to rub on his rear to stop the inflammation. Poor little guy.
She gave more theophylline (Lizzie used to take that) to help him breathe, but it all feels too familiar – this push to make him comfortable in the last days, knowing it only does enough good to lessen the pain, the physical pain.
He still follows me around the house and he wags his tail and is alert. His eyes are big and warm and loving.
I never had to put down a dog that still seemed so alive to me in so many ways.
After the appointment and a stop at Publix for his medicine, I decided to take him to Barnes and Noble, even though it’s in the upper 30s and it was getting late and I was starving.
Every day matters now and I love taking him there.
I wrapped him in a warm blue blanket in the stroller, bought a tall soy latte, and took him around the store.
Regina, one of the sales managers, often has come up to Reggie to say hello. This time she stayed to talk to me and asked me more about him.
“Can I say hello?” she asked.
“Yes, he likes everyone, as long as they have two legs.”
“How old is he?”
“Almost 13 years old,” I answered quietly.
“Have you had him since he was a puppy?”
My heart sank.
“No,” I pet Reggie before I continue, “he was my husband’s dog.”
“Oh,” she said.
She went on to tell me about her cats and we listened intently. I didn’t tell her Reggie would only be back a few more times. I didn’t think it was necessary and why tell them? They’d find out, after it happened.
As I walk around the store with Reggie he alternates between looking up from the stroller and huddling in the blanket.
I stop at the Valentine’s cards for a moment and move on. I don’t want to think about Valentine’s Day, not this year.
I linger in the store a long time, strolling, slowly, up and down the aisles. Many times, I just stop, and stand there for several minutes.
Then I walk around to the front of the stroller, bend down, lean my forehead on top of Reggie’s head and close my eyes. I kiss his cheeks, I sniff his fur. It smells different. I don’t know why.
Finally, I realize it’s getting late, and I should take him home and feed him, start his medications, and think about how I want to spend the next few days making the most of the time we have left.
I do not know if I will be okay. Right now, it does not feel like anything is okay, or that it ever will be again.
But I hear Reggie breathing heavily under the table while I write, and in this moment, this precious moment, I am okay.
Reggie is still here, he hasn’t left me yet, and so for now, everything will be okay.
Last night, when Reggie was laying down, spent from getting up and down so many times, and looking frail, I asked him:
“Reggie, do you want to see Lizzie and Toby?”
Knowing that he will, is the one comfort to me – knowing my 3 beloved dogs will once again be reunited in their pack, across the Rainbow Bridge…
“Reggwood, Lizzie Bear, Tob-er,” he called out. And I followed suit.
Yes, we can call out again, and there they’ll be, the way they used to be, tails wagging, ears up, competing for the front spot on their walk around the block with Audie holding their leashes, a spring in their step, and no pain.
No more pain, just peace and happiness.
I need to remind myself. Where he is going, there is no more pain.
He looks so handsome in his brown coat right now, sleeping under the table, and I love the raspy sound of his snoring. Lizzie used to snore like that, too.
He sounds peaceful.
I want to remember him, just like this, my sweetest boy.