Never so much absence, though, and not just absence,
never such a sense of violated presence,
so much desolation, so many desperate last hopes refuted,
never such pure despair.
Surely I know by now that each death demands its own procedures of mourning,
but I can't find those I need even to begin mourning you:
so much affectionate accord there was with you,
that to imagine being without you is impossibly diminishing;
I relied on you to ratify me,
to reflect and sanction with your life who I might be in mine.
So restorative you were, so much a response:
untenable that the part of me you shared with me shouldn't have you actively a part of it.
Never so much absence, so many longings ash, as you are ash.
Never so cruel the cry within, Will I never again be with you? Ash. Ash.
- Charles Kenneth Williams
It's been two weeks -- two weeks that both seemed to fly by and also to last an eternity -- since we had to help Maggie, my Belgian Tervuren and best friend of 14 and a half years, cross over to the Rainbow Bridge. She is everywhere, yet she is nowhere. How is she not here?
I wish I had her puppy pictures stored digitally (although I will, soon). The Toodles was an insanely adorable puppy. I have been buried in boxes upon boxes of pictures this past week, finding forgotten pictures of Maggie in her younger days, treasuring every memory.
We picked Maggie up from a breeder just outside of a reservation in NM in 1997; we spent several days there, seeing the litter every day, until Pink Girl came home with us. She flew under the seat in front of us after an overnight flight delay that caused us to sneak her into a 'no pets' hotel. She experienced airport pizza for the first time during the 7-hour layover the next day in Dallas. And then she arrived here, home, a little older than 7 weeks of age. And that day was the start of something amazing.
Maggie was scared of everything -- shrubbery, lawn ornaments, strangers, other dogs, balloons. Over the years we worked together as a team, teaching her that New isn't Scary, and that people and other dogs predict Good Things. Her desire to be a Good Girl was strong (as was her love for treats!), and within the space of a couple years, we had progressed to being able to attend others' group classes, to go uptown to the busy outdoor music festival, and even to accepting handling from techs (usually . . . ) at the vet office. She was my demo dog in some of my classes, and she even helped as the 'stranger dog' to help other dogs learn to be calm and happy in the presence of other dogs. Oh, how she could shine. She never did grow to love strangers; that was simply her nature. She did, however, learn to accept them, and even enjoyed their attentions from time to time.
I have lost other dogs and other pets to this Great Beyond; although those losses were heart-wrenching, nothing has ever hit me like this. The Toodles was "that dog". That dog that changes your life, your perspective, your path. That dog that becomes such a part of your soul that you can't imagine a world without her.
She was my greatest teacher, and the dog that led me into training as a profession. She was my muse.
Her ashes came back today; she is with me once again. Guiding my actions, my training, my every dog-related move. My muse.
I was asleep while you were dying
It's as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow
I make between my slumber and awakening.
the Erebus I keep you in, still trying
not to let you go. You'll be dead again tomorrow,
but in dreams you live. So I try taking
you back into morning. Sleep-heavy, turning,
my eyes open, I find you do not follow.
Again and again, this constant forsaking.
- Natasha Trethewey
Here is a chronicle of her last day on earth, her last day with me, the day when the Impossible became Real.
Posted to friends on Facebook, Friday, April 13th, 2012, 12:08 a.m.
Please send out positive thoughts for Maggie. She'd been having some hind end issues since we came back from the Dominican Republic last week but tonight she lost control of her back end completely. She'd been to see the vet earlier in the week and we suspect either a major disc problem or a massive tumor on her spine (where she was first diagnosed with multiple myeloma in 2009). She's resting somewhat comfortably right now after gabapentin and tramadol but was in a lot of pain and can't really move. Getting xrays first thing in the morning (the vet told us that if she could rest, it might be better for her to wait rather than have to take an hour-long car ride to an emergency clinic that wouldn't let us tech her).
The funny and sad thing is that this morning she took a short walk and was the strongest by far she'd been in a week -- and less than two weeks ago, she was happily taking walks over a mile on a daily basis. And when we tried to take her out the last time with a rear-end leash (she'd demanded to go out; this was when we discovered her back end seemed paralyzed), she walked with her front end straight to the gate like she wanted to go for another walk. She's only 14 1/2. #I'mNotReady #NeitherIsShe
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Posted Friday, April 13th, 12:09 a.m.
Resting.
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Posted Friday, April 13th, 12:37 p.m.
Thanks everyone for all of your positive thoughts. They mean a lot. The Toodles' X-rays did not show anything obviously wrong; as an aside, heart and lungs looked great. Probably a disc or smaller tumor on spine.
Choice was euthanasia, or go to Cincinnati for a CT scan. So we are on our way to Cincinnati for a CT scan. Don't know what will come of it, but I can't make that choice without knowing exactly what our options are. Maggie is resting comfortably after a shot of morphine. I, however, have not had a shot of morphine, and am not resting comfortably. #ThisIsJustABadDreamRight?
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Posted Friday, April 13th, 9:20 p.m.
There's a Toodle-sized hole in my heart.
The Toodles
2010 - 2012 Pics: Maggie (Beaverbrook G Sugar Magnolia)
By: Mel Bussey
Photos: 344
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Posted Friday, April 13th, 9:32 p.m.
My heart is broken. Tonight we helped Maggie go to the Rainbow Bridge. After an almost 3-year battle with multiple myeloma, it finally destroyed her T3 vertebrae with lesions and a compression fracture, rendering her almost paralyzed overnight. There were no surgical options, and even as a long shot for a short remission, heavy chemotherapy would not have brought her back complete use of even her front legs or completely eased her pain.
It seems fitting that The Toodles passed on the same day as the 100th anniversary of the Titanic -- she was also supposed to be an unsinkable ship.
Something just feels so wrong in the universe.
Her suffering is over. Ours has just begun. I will miss you forever, Maggie, the Roodles of the Toodles, Beaverbrook G Sugar Magnolia, Sistah, Maggie-Roo, Miss Thang, Miss T, Bestest Girl, dog of my heart. You taught me so much and I love you more than you'll ever know. You're a Good Girl.
RIP, Maggie. I love you.
11/3/1997 - 4/13/2012
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Posted Friday, April 13th, 9:32 p.m.
“We who choose to surround ourselves with lives more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way."
-Irving Townsend, "The Once Again Prince"
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Posted Saturday, April 14th, 2:06 p.m.
Thank you all so much for your outpouring of love, support, and kindness – from beautiful words to fond memories to even a wonderful offer of meeting me at the clinic to hold my hand (thanks Pat). It has helped tremendously. My instinct tells me to crawl into a hole and shut myself off from the world for a while, but at the same time it is soothing to know I am not alone. Thank you all for being there.
I am so glad I am in this profession right now – when I was a Corporate Cube Monkey, many of my co-workers didn’t understand how intense a bond one could have with a dog. I actually heard words to the effect of “it’s just a dog” – more than once. So nice to be in a circle where sentiments like this are unthinkable.
The house is filled with The Toodles, everywhere I look. It’s like I’m missing a limb.
---
Posted only to myself in a Word document, Saturday, April 14th, late afternoon into early evening.
--
Mr. Su: "And now, she's taken away from me. How can she not be here? One minute she's there. The next, she's gone like she was never there."
- Six Feet Under
How can she not be here?
The pain is intense. But yet I welcome it. The pain means she is close, she is still here. I dread the day the pain lessens – for it will mean she is farther away. Right now, I can feel her sitting next to me, feel my hand petting her soft fur, scratching her head, stroking behind her ears. I can see her looking up at me with her eyes half shut , softly panting, enjoying the attention. I can see her lying on her bed. I can see her tilting her head and shutting her mouth in anticipation when I ask, “Pill Pocket?” or “Are you hungry?” I can see her correcting a visiting dog with that lazy “I’m not going to get up but Imma gonna tell you off” bark. I can see her looking at me while being pestered by a puppy, asking, “why is that thing still here?” I see her relaxing on her bed as I brush her, again with the eyes half-closed and a soft pant. I can feel her as I snuggle up beside her, stroking her belly. I can see and feel her reaching up to lick my face. I can see her learning her latest tricks, breaking the “wait” more than once to get to the object she thinks I want her to take. I can see her excitedly grabbing her Kong out of my hand, can see her lying on the floor with her paw over it licking out its contents, can see her standing up and slamming that Kong onto the ground in the hopes that the morsels will pop out. I can see her taking a drink out of her bowl, taking care as always to make sure her nose rests on the lip while she laps up the water. I can feel her soft fur as I bury my face in it, and smell its sweetness.
What happens when I can’t see her anymore? When I can’t feel her pawing me, telling she wants more belly? When the pain is gone, it will truly be Real. She will truly be Gone. So I don’t want the pain to stop. I welcome every tear, every sob.
The night I lost you someone pointed me towards the five stages of grief.
Go that way, they said, it's easy, like learning to climb stairs after the amputation.
And so I climbed.
Denial was first. I sat down at breakfast carefully setting the table for two. I passed you the toast - you sat there. I passed you the paper - you hid behind it.
Anger seemed more familiar. I burned the toast, snatched the paper and read the headlines myself. But they mentioned your departure, and so I moved on to Bargaining.
What could I exchange for you? The silence after storms? My typing fingers?
Before I could decide, Depression came puffing up, a poor relation its suitcase tied together with string. In the suitcase were bandages for the eyes and bottles of sleep. I slid all the way down the stairs feeling nothing.
And all the time Hope flashed on and off in defective neon. Hope was my uncle's middle name, he died of it.
After a year I am still climbing, though my feet slip on your stone face.
The treeline has long since disappeared; green is a color I have forgotten.
But now I see what I am climbing towards;
Acceptance written in capital letters, a special headline: Acceptance, its name is in lights.
I struggle on, waving and shouting. Below, my whole life spreads its surf, all the landscapes I've ever known or dreamed of. Below a fish jumps: the pulse in your neck.
Acceptance. I finally reach it.
But something is wrong.
Grief is a circular staircase, I have lost you.
- Linda Pastan
How can she not be here?
Every time I reach down to pet her, I can feel her there. And it’s like a knife through my heart. But it means she’s THERE. What happens when that memory fades? The pain will fade, but so will the NEARNESS of her. Toodles. Oh, Toodles. I can’t bear this.
I walk into a room and immediately look for her on the dog bed, out of habit. But she is not there. And it hits me anew. I see all of her supplement bottles on the counter, and I never want to put them away, because putting them away makes this Real. I see her inhaler on the kitchen island, and can’t bear to put it away either. I see her leashes, the new leashes I just bought her, in her colors, purple and black. I see the veggie steamer on the stove, dirty; it reminds me I will never cook veggies for her again.
There are many moments where I feel flat, almost dead inside. Numb. In those moments nothing really seems to matter. It’s hard to describe. There’s just this sea of Nothing. I don’t like those moments of Nothing. She is far away from me, then.
And other moments where it just sneaks up on me like a ninja and punches me in the heart without warning.
How can she not be here?
It’s all so surreal, as if it were all a dream. Stroking her and whispering “I love you”s to her on the final hour-long car ride to her vet for the last goodbye. We brought her back to Oxford to have her euthanized, after the specialist broke our heart with the information that there were no good options. We brought her back to Oxford so she could be close to home and it could be done in the back of the van with my lying beside her. And so I could have one more hour with her, one more hour to say goodbye and tell her how much I loved her. That last car ride . . . how bittersweet. She wasn’t totally there because of the pain meds, but part of her was there. Stroking her face, her head, her belly, her back, lying with my face next to hers, telling her with my eyes how very much I loved her. Giving her magic kisses. And then when the vet came out, gave her the last shot of painkillers to ease her into unconsciousness , and telling her over and over how much I would miss her, how I wish I had more time with her, how much I loved her, and what a Good Girl she was. That she was my Bestest Girl. Bestest. Bestest Toodles. Bestest Toodles ever, bestest dog ever. Watching her Go Away. Watching the tongue come out of her mouth and hang there limply. And then the final shot to stop her heart. And the vet saying, “she’s gone”. Watching the light go out of her eyes forever. Forever.
Bringing her to the crematorium, wishing that last ride would never end so I could hold her and bury my face in her fur forever. Wanting another minute, another hour, another day just to hold her and stroke her, even though she was gone. Watching Jan and Kim pull her out of the van and onto a gurney. Stroking her on the gurney, telling her again how much I missed her already, how much I loved her. Lying on that gurney, she finally looked dead. Oh, how hard that was to see. Oh, how hard. But the hardest thing was saying, for the last time, “I love you so much, Maggie. Good-bye.” And walking away. Walking away. Leaving her there. Knowing that I would never see that sweet face ever again. Walking away was so damn hard. It was Final. It was Over. No More Toodles.
Was that just last night? Was it? It seems so much longer ago, and yet it seems like it just happened.
It’s like a dream, like a movie I watched. I was there, I felt it, but it was like there was a filter. Like it wasn’t really happening. Even though it was and is painful as hell. Like it was behind a steel wall. But that wall is starting to crack a little. It’s still not Real, though. I will walk into the other room and there she will be, lying on her dog bed, looking at me expectantly. She will wag her tail. I’m sure of it; I feel her there, waiting for me. It’s like this whole thing is happening in a fog, in a haze.
How can she not be here? How is this even possible?
There is a trash can full of old Maggie hair. Can I stand to throw it away, even though it’s keeping company with dirty Kleenexes and other debris? Can I stand to throw away the last bit of Toodles? Even though I saved some of her fur? Fur that I caress my face to, imagining I’m snuggling up against her. A container of fur I stick my nose in, imaging that I’m burying my face in her neck, smelling her sweet Maggie smell.
And moments where something makes me laugh . . . I feel guilty for laughing. I shouldn’t be allowed to laugh. It means there is not sufficient Missing of Toodles in that moment, and that means she is farther away from me. And it feels like I am trivializing her absence. Then I cry, and oddly it feels better than laughing. Warmer, somehow.
Sometimes I’ll realize that I’ve forgotten about Maggie – for the last moment, for the last half-hour. And then I feel terrible. How? It was yesterday. How can I forget she’s not here, even just for a second? I almost feel like the pain should be continuous, unyielding.
How can she not be here?
How can I focus on anything else? Getting anything done means I am not Thinking About Maggie. Means I am not actively Missing Maggie. Mourning Maggie. And it feels wrong.
Oh, one more day. If I could only have one more day with a healthy Toodles, spending every minute enjoying her, soaking up every bit of her, smelling her fur, feeling her softness, taking her hiking, playing training games, giving her Kongs, walking her to her favorite park (and into the field beyond which she loved), making her special foods, brushing her, singing to her, making up songs as we go. If only. One more day, one more day to really say good-bye. What I would give.
She was in so much pain her last 24 hours that I don’t feel I got to give her a proper send-off, although I rarely left her side. She wasn’t completely there. I hope she understood how much I love her, how very crucial a piece of my life she was. I hope she understood there was no other choice, because her suffering was not going to go away, because there were no more possible One More Days.
Her last healthy week was when I was away – out of the country. I lost a whole week with her. She was starting to decline when we got home (we thought it was temporary, hoped it was temporary) and I had (have still) a sprained ankle, so I couldn’t even do much with her. When she struggled to get up and then just stood there like she had walked into a room and forgotten why, it was hard to really help her when I had troubles moving around myself.
I wonder, had I been able to give her the proper help up and down the back stoop, had I been able to continuously afford all of her vast array of supplements for the past 3 years, had we not switched to the generic form of chemo pills, had we done more frequent tests to check if the myeloma was back, had we increased her meds, had I, had I, had I . . . would she still be here? Would I have had another week, another month, another year?
What if.
What if the last-ditch effort of heavy chemo would have WORKED? She healed before, against the odds. The T3 vertebrae is tight and leaves no room for error or calcification, though, unlike the T6 or 7 she previously fractured. But what if? What if a few days’ or weeks’ worth of pain and morphine had resulted in another happy year? What did she want? Would she have wanted me to try, one last time? What if, like before, the vets had underestimated her capacity to heal?
And it’s too late, too late to take away that needle. Most of me thinks it was the right decision. The vets all said it was the right decision. But . . . what if? My heart is not so sure. Did she love life so much she was willing to risk more pain to take a chance?? Would the Rooster have risen again after all?!? Could she have beaten the odds yet one more time? Did I do what she wanted . . . or did I betray her?
What if.
Before we knew for sure, I was telling her positive thoughts – all the Kongs, and walks (even if with a wheelchair), and snuggles, and dinners in her future. Hoping that visualization would manifest. When the end came, did she think I lied to her? Was she glad to be free of the pain, or was she in her head screaming “Mommy! Nooooo! Not yet! Please, I’m fading! Grab me!” The thought of that kills me. What if she wasn’t ready to go, and I couldn’t hear her?? That’s a horrifying thought and one that haunts me.
How in the world can she not be here? This cannot be.
HAD I KNOWN . . . had I known it was her last two weeks on earth. Oh, if only I had known. Just back from a week away, behind as hell, three board and train dogs, a full class schedule to teach, emails to send, paperwork to do, and very limited mobility due to a badly sprained ankle . . . she didn’t get enough attention those last two weeks. Even though she wasn't as mobile as usual. Even though we could tell she was off her game. What in the hell was wrong with me??
Yes, I slept beside her on the dog bed most nights, yes, I found time for her, yes, I gave her a lot of snuggles and treats and brushings, yes, I told her that I loved her and that she was a Good Girl hundreds of times a day, but it wasn’t ENOUGH. Not nearly enough. So not nearly enough.
How can she not be here?
I did not make the most of those last weeks because I refused to admit that she could decline. It was inconceivable. Maggie has always been here; Maggie will always be here. There was no imagining a Toodle-less future. She would be here next week, next month, and she would be stronger, and I would make it up to her. If only.
These regrets are tearing me apart. Thankfully they are mitigated by sweet, sweet memories of Maggie being Maggie and of us doing so many things together. Both the regrets and the sweet memories, though, lead down the same path – tears and an overwhelming feeling of loss, of emptiness. But I don’t want the pain to stop. I need the pain, because of the regrets, and because it brings her closer to me. The pain is both a penance and a comfort.
For squandering our last weeks together, Maggie, I am oh, so, so very sorry. Please, please forgive me. I may not ever forgive myself, but you are a better being than I could ever be.
I wish I believed in an afterlife. In the Rainbow Bridge. I would have something to hold on to. But I am realizing that I will never, ever, see her again. Ever. And that is so fucking hard. How do you hold on to a memory? How do you keep it close?
Sometimes it feels like she was a memory, just a distant dream. She’s slipping away. I see pictures and while they painfully scream her absence, I think “oh Maggie. I loved you so much.” She seems more In The Past than she did last night or even this morning. She’s not as much Here as she was last night. She’s slipping away. It’s becoming Real.
I love you, Maggie. There will never be another Roo. And I will miss you for the rest of my days.
I hope, wherever you are, Maggie, that there are snuggles, and scritches, and Kongs, and Dinners, and Pill Pockets without pills, and macho sticks, and fish jerky, and Frisbees, and balls, and sticks, and rivers, and lakes, and big open fields, and woods with deer, and trainings. Lots of trainings. And hikes at Brookville Lake, and at Jenny and Keith’s, and in brand new places, and walks – oh, I hope there are many walks where you are. I hope you can run fast like you used to, leap to try to catch the Frisbee (even if you often missed), that you can climb stairs and jump onto the bed and couch again, and that you have a favorite chair in which you can lie on your back. And that there are no ear cleanings, and no Mommies Mad At Something Else (oh, how you hated that). And no brushing out of mats, and no Baffs (even though you were oh so good). And most of all, no pain. I want Heaven for you – I want it so badly.
Please don’t forget me, and never ever forget how much I love you, how much I will always love you. I miss you.
Goodnight, my sweet, silly girl.
--
Parting from you, rising
into the air, I enter again
the absence we came together in.
My ways in house and field
and woods have reached an end,
dismembered of each other
and of me. And you remain
on the earth we knew, already changing
into the earth you know.
Fire-driven through the air,
I go alone, a part
of what, together, we became.
- Wendell Berry