If days had flavor, yesterday would have been bitter. It would have been a beautiful dish, full of gourmet expectation, that quickly disintegrates into horrid-tasting mush in your mouth. Something that you want to spit out, but can’t because it’s too far gone to gracefully do away with. If days had color, it would have been a gradient gray—one that began in the light white category, but progressed into a dark somber tone by noon. It’s funny how we expect to be so in control of our day when it begins, but one thought, one memory, one word, one action, one event immediately changes the progression into one over which we actually have zero control. We’re just along for the ride, no matter how wild or chilling or unwelcome it may become.
Yesterday, one of our family dogs, the one battling congestive heart failure with seemingly little effort, didn’t come out of her kennel when I opened it up early in the morning. Because she is 13 years old and almost totally deaf, I thought she was just sleeping in and couldn’t hear the others race out to meet the day. Minutes later, I realized that she physically couldn’t get her hind legs under her. With a little nudging and lifting, she moved out and to the patio, where she sank down for the last time. It was over. She lay there, struggling to breathe well, and totally immobile. She had just run out of steam for the last time. Her little body just could do no more. I knew the time had come but hoped I was wrong.
Duchess was a gift from a friend who raises bird dogs. She had borne several litters of puppies and was ready for retirement. The little black and white Brittany Spaniel joined our fleet of backyard canines, immediately taking on the role of mama. She snapped when she needed to and demanded what she should, but ran like a puppy and was immeasurably happy. On any hot summer day, she enjoyed sinking up to her neck in the little blue kiddie pool water that was always available to her. She ran like a Walking Horse, with her legs in seeming disconnect with her body as she raced after any squirrel that dared to move. On more than one occasion she actually caught the little fella, taking what was left of him to her kennel so her yard mates wouldn’t get to share the prize. She was just as protective of her food bowl. If any meal was not totally consumed, heaven help the buddy who showed any interest in helping do away with it. I’ve never seen a happier dog.
I love animals and have quite the collection. I’m really not partial to either dogs or cats, but can probably honestly answer when all cat ladies are called. I don’t appreciate the “crazy” label, but that’s a small price to pay for the joy of loving and caring for animals of all sizes. We have horses, dogs, and cats presently, but I’m open to exploring other options. At one time, we gave our backyard to two Border Collies, Frosty and Jenna. At 15 years of age, Frosty died, leaving Jenna alone. Because we thought she was too old and crotchety to welcome a younger dog, she spent the remainder of her years alone—relatively happy, but missing Frosty. I swore we wouldn’t make the mistake of having only two dogs again, so we fixed that problem by adopting four. And what a motley crew. There is Duchess, the purebred Brittany Spaniel with the milky caramel eyes that you could just melt into; Tucker, the crazy neurotic seizure-prone Border Collie who loves you like there’s no tomorrow; Rosie, the “Australian Shepherd” we bought from the Mennonite couple who swore she was purebred when she probably only walked by an Australian Shepherd sometime during her puppyhood; and Charlie, the short-haired brown and white mutt dropped on the side of the road by some jerk who has probably done the same with countless other dogs who had the misfortune of being associated with him. They race and play in our acre of a backyard like kids at preschool. I sometimes wish my days could be as carefree as every single one of theirs is. They have no fear of tomorrow because they don’t even know that tomorrow will come. All they have is now, and that’s not really a bad thing.
Our little Duchess took joy in so much. She was super excited to be let into the pool area where she would sink into the green grass or totter around the pool, occasionally taking a misstep and falling in. At least twice during her last summer with us, I had to fish her out, where she just shook it off and trotted on around and out. Her cough grew worse in the last few months, but we didn’t worry greatly because she never slowed down. Of course, we had her on medicine that removed some fluid, but that’s just buying time—at some point we knew it would just be too much for her. There is still an indentation in the ground under the bushes outside our bedroom window where she slept away many lazy hours. I could most often locate her by glancing outside the window to see that black and white ball of fur nestled in the shade of the bushes. What a life.
For five years, she brought us joy and laughter and daily companionship. And then she grew old. She began to fall more often and her gait was unsteady. She couldn’t hear, so when I called the others, I would often see her at the back of the yard, oblivious to my presence or the fact that the others had left her. I was certain that her days were numbered and I worried about the cold winter ahead. Unlike her, I could dread the time when she could go no more. I think that’s a curse we as humans endure. We can dread. Dogs can’t. But I had hope. I hoped the medicine would do what it should. I hoped the diagnosis was wrong. Each day, when she trotted out, hurrying to the next kennel door to greet the occupant as he emerged, I thought she looked better and was still with enough spunk to ward off the inevitable.
But then Tuesday came. A day like any other, except that she didn’t trot out of her kennel. By midmorning, we knew we had to see the vet. Even on the way, I convinced myself that her lack of mobility was most likely due to a spinal disorder like Rosie had encountered, which just required a couple of days of immobility and some miracle medicine. But a check of her heart and lungs confirmed the fact that her heart just wasn’t doing its job and that she had only a couple of days left—miserable days—if we didn’t make the decision to relieve her of that course. If you don’t love, you don’t lose. And we lost her on that day but we loved her for years. And she loved us. That’s the thing about animals that ensures that I’ll always have them with me. They love. And don’t we all need that?
Duchess is buried at the farm, in the ever-expanding animal cemetery. She is under an ages-old oak tree that gives just the amount of shade she would have enjoyed. She occupies the plot beside Willy, the cutting horse that died last April. Both of those animals technically belonged to Jennifer, who stayed beside both during their last minutes and who helped bury each one.
Willy has a yellow rose at his headstone. I think Duchess deserves a brilliant crimson rose bush for her love and loyalty. Yes, I think that’s it. And a headstone that reads “Duchess—True Royalty. You Will Be Missed and Loved Beyond Measure.”
