Five minus two equals
Aug. 6th, 2007 03:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
constanceHello, my little cauliflowers. I know that while I've been holed up sitting my own personal shiva, I've missed a great deal, and I'm sorry for it -- sorry for most of it, anyway, though I have to admit that a glance back through my friendslist indicates that perhaps I shouldn't be so sorry about missing some things -- and I'll be back with you soon, I think, answering comments and emails and, like, participating and stuff, but I did just have one more thing to fling out into the ether.
When I first got my dog Flannery, she was not at all like other puppies. She'd been abused and abandoned with the rest of her litter, and she came to me without, it seemed, anything like any sort of canine genetic programming in place except her perfectly delightful full-body wag. She had to learn to trust me (and my then-roommate), and she approached everything with such caution that my roommate and I agreed that she must be learning it all by rote rather than instinctively. For years, whenever she took an activity like barking or shoe-chewing to her heart, we fussed at her but also kind of cheered her on for displaying typical! dog! behavior! For getting all brave and comfortable! For reading her Dog Manual*!
She eventually settled in, though. She was never a very social dog, but she was friendly enough, never quite outgrew her original caution but became more adaptable. Was always polite, always slow-moving, always agreeable (except when it came to kittens, with whom she had not so much patience). She was my soulmate.
She loved me, and I loved her. She accompanied me through every house, every job, every pet acquisition, every relationship of my entire adult life. She was more than a pet; she was my constant star. Whatever else was happening or evolving or collapsing around me, she was almost always there with me, and on the rare occasions when she couldn't be with me, I missed her.
And now she's not with me, any more. She's been going downhill faster and faster, over the past months, as her Cushing's Disease has begun to accelerate, and after I picked her up from the vet last week where I had to board her when we left town, she never walked again. By Friday she wasn't eating or drinking, unless I was giving it to her by hand. And on Saturday, I brought her back to the vet and said goodbye to her.
I've been thinking, over the past months and weeks and days, that I was saying goodbye gradually. That when she took her last breath, it would be comparatively easy. In the last week, as I bathed her, hand-fed her, cleaned up after her, I was thinking that I'd probably even feel relieved when I wasn't spending all my disposable time and income on her.
How wrong can a girl be? I'm not ready. I'm not relieved. I don't care that she had a lucky rescue and a wonderful life for all but maybe the last six months. That I had her with me for sixteen years, which is at least as much as anyone can hope for with a dog. She can't be with me any more, and what I think of when I think of her is not how much she was struggling in her last months, it's only how much I miss her.
:::
During one of our carrying-the-fifty-pound-dog-outside trips last week, somehow my little amateur escape-artist cat Olive got outside without my noticing, and she's been missing since. Until last night, I went out looking and calling for her every night, to no avail -- she's very skittish -- but last night, I saw her as she went streaking around a corner.
I had been feeling more and more pessimistic as the days went by with no sign of her, but it's amazing how much hope one brief sighting can inspire. I know she's alive. I'm pretty sure she's uninjured. And I have a new plan. Tonight, and every night, I will get home and instead of marching around calling and looking, I will sit quietly and wait for her to come to me. That's the way life worked inside, after all, so possibly it's what's called for here. It's worth a try, anyway.
____________________
* The Dog Manual being the secret volume distributed to all pound puppies. Flannery, not being a secretive sort, used to talk about the Dog Manual quite a lot.
When I first got my dog Flannery, she was not at all like other puppies. She'd been abused and abandoned with the rest of her litter, and she came to me without, it seemed, anything like any sort of canine genetic programming in place except her perfectly delightful full-body wag. She had to learn to trust me (and my then-roommate), and she approached everything with such caution that my roommate and I agreed that she must be learning it all by rote rather than instinctively. For years, whenever she took an activity like barking or shoe-chewing to her heart, we fussed at her but also kind of cheered her on for displaying typical! dog! behavior! For getting all brave and comfortable! For reading her Dog Manual*!
She eventually settled in, though. She was never a very social dog, but she was friendly enough, never quite outgrew her original caution but became more adaptable. Was always polite, always slow-moving, always agreeable (except when it came to kittens, with whom she had not so much patience). She was my soulmate.
She loved me, and I loved her. She accompanied me through every house, every job, every pet acquisition, every relationship of my entire adult life. She was more than a pet; she was my constant star. Whatever else was happening or evolving or collapsing around me, she was almost always there with me, and on the rare occasions when she couldn't be with me, I missed her.
And now she's not with me, any more. She's been going downhill faster and faster, over the past months, as her Cushing's Disease has begun to accelerate, and after I picked her up from the vet last week where I had to board her when we left town, she never walked again. By Friday she wasn't eating or drinking, unless I was giving it to her by hand. And on Saturday, I brought her back to the vet and said goodbye to her.
I've been thinking, over the past months and weeks and days, that I was saying goodbye gradually. That when she took her last breath, it would be comparatively easy. In the last week, as I bathed her, hand-fed her, cleaned up after her, I was thinking that I'd probably even feel relieved when I wasn't spending all my disposable time and income on her.
How wrong can a girl be? I'm not ready. I'm not relieved. I don't care that she had a lucky rescue and a wonderful life for all but maybe the last six months. That I had her with me for sixteen years, which is at least as much as anyone can hope for with a dog. She can't be with me any more, and what I think of when I think of her is not how much she was struggling in her last months, it's only how much I miss her.
:::
During one of our carrying-the-fifty-pound-dog-outside trips last week, somehow my little amateur escape-artist cat Olive got outside without my noticing, and she's been missing since. Until last night, I went out looking and calling for her every night, to no avail -- she's very skittish -- but last night, I saw her as she went streaking around a corner.
I had been feeling more and more pessimistic as the days went by with no sign of her, but it's amazing how much hope one brief sighting can inspire. I know she's alive. I'm pretty sure she's uninjured. And I have a new plan. Tonight, and every night, I will get home and instead of marching around calling and looking, I will sit quietly and wait for her to come to me. That's the way life worked inside, after all, so possibly it's what's called for here. It's worth a try, anyway.
____________________
* The Dog Manual being the secret volume distributed to all pound puppies. Flannery, not being a secretive sort, used to talk about the Dog Manual quite a lot.
no subject
Date: 2007-08-06 07:48 pm (UTC)I am so sorry for your loss.