On the Darkest Day of the Year, My Dog Died

“The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking.”

The Name of the Wind

I am currently rereading Patrick Rothfus’ The Name of the Wind. It is one of my favorite books, and I want to remember why. Sometimes things happen, and we forget who we are. A favorite book seems like a good place to go looking for myself. This time, though when I read The Name of the Wind, there is no dog at my side to keep me company…to keep me warm. The hollow, echoing quiet, the sounds made by things that are lacking, I understand these more deeply now.

Last night, I dreamed Cato was in our bed with us. She used to stretch herself out in our queen bed, managing to take up most of it. On the couch, she curled herself up into the tiniest ball, but in the bed, she was royalty. In my dreams, she is as real as the book that has fallen out of my hands, but in the morning, she is not needing me to walk her.

The day she died, I rose early, around five am. The boys slept in the living room with her. Dan had been sleeping there with her since her diagnosis, since she stopped climbing stairs. Sometimes, she surprised us and still made it up to the bedroom. She was so strong even when she was sick. Descending those same stairs became harder though.

In the dark, I make a cup of tea and leave it untouched while I write. In my grief, my codependent tendencies take on new power. No one is grieving how I think they should. No one is doing what I want them to. I can’t control losing Cato, and so I fool myself into thinking I can control everything else. I write in the hope that the page can contain all that doesn’t make sense, and I can walk into the world and avoid saying or doing something a wiser version of me would regret.

I shower and then I take my book downstairs to sit with Cato. I don’t read. I just sit in the dark and stroke her fur and cry. I think of the countless times I’ve cried like this, the many times she’s absorbed my ache and grief. I wonder it’s okay to cry like this, perhaps it’s selfish, and I should be stronger for her, but she’s used to my crying by now. When Dan walks in the room, she turns her head towards him and looks right into his eyes. She can no longer walk. Dan had to carry her outside last night so she could relieve herself. On Sunday, she still went under the dining room table at suppertime hoping for scraps. She licked gumbo off my plate, then she licked Dan’s bowl, then Anna’s. We had friends over, and she was curious and interested in them. On Monday, she pretty much stopped eating. On Thursday, there were ten teenagers in our house at one point, and she didn’t move off the rug. Yesterday, she stopped drinking. Still, when I pet her behind her ears, she leans into me with every ounce of her being. In the darkest hours when we lost her, love was the last thing to go.

As I pet her, she makes a funny noise with her mouth. “Can you get her an ice cube? I ask Seabass. He returns with the cube, and she takes it and eats it. I ask him to get me a bowl of ice chips, so in her last hours, I feed her, and she licks my fingers, and we both find some relief. I ask Dan to put some music on. It is just a few days before Christmas, so Silent Night plays, and I start to cry again.

It gradually gets a little lighter in the dark room. We make a plan for the day. I will go to yoga; Seabass will go play basketball. Dan will take Anna to kendo. Dan asks if I’ll sit with Cato while he runs. We are all taking care of ourselves and each other.

The vet is supposed to arrive at nine. I tell the kids to be downstairs by 8:45 as I don’t want to go looking for anyone, but it turns out I don’t need to do that. Everyone is there, wanting to spend a little more time. We always want a little more time.

The vet pulls into our driveway. It feels like forever from the time we hear her park until she is at our front door. Cato still has enough fight in her to let out a low gut growl. I want to give that same gut growl to death itself. When the vet walks in our living room and introduces herself, though, Cato doesn’t even try to move off her dog bed. I can’t remember the vet’s name. She is kind, so kind, and I will not forget her kindness.

The vet asks if Cato would like to meet her. “Yes, meet her,” we say. Cato is a reactive dog. She’s a rescue, and we don’t know what her life was like before she came to live with us, but we imagine there was some trauma there. She has always liked vets, though, and women and kids and anyone who tried to love her. Cato accepts the vet instantly, and we do as well. We are in a circle of love and grief, and she is our guide through the next stage. The vet explains the process and starts the sedative. “You can treat her for distraction,” she says, “if she’ll take treats.” Cato always was responsive to treats, but she stopped taking treats this week. I tell Seabass to get her some more ice, and she takes the small pieces from his hand. Needles have never phased Cato. She has recovered from two knee surgeries. We place our hands on her and tell her we love her, and some of us cry quietly, and some of us cry loudly, and some of us don’t shed any visible tears. Even now, she still looks at us like she’s staring into our souls.

After a period, the vet tells us that Cato is relaxed, ready for the final injection. “Do you want another minute?” she asks.

I nod my head. Yes, please, I think. Can we have another 10, 100, 1000, a million, can we keep her here forever and just pet her sweet fur letting the love between us rise and fall to the sound of her breathing? Love is never lost, I believe this, but the soft fur and the look in her eyes… I think of the way my grandmother’s fingers felt in mine when she reminded me at my grandfather’s funeral that “all the world’s a stage” and we “merely players.” Love is never lost, I know this, but some things belong to the living.

Cato, though, is in a deep slumber, and it’s time. “Okay,” I say, looking at Anna and Seabass. “Are you ready?” Dan asks.

As if we are ever ready. I watch her belly rise and fall and rise and fall for the final time. Before the vet leaves, she gives us a mold of Cato’s paw. My first thought is to place it above the fireplace, so Cato won’t eat it. After the vet leaves, we wait for cremation services to arrive, and Dan says, “Do you remember in our backyard in Maryland when Cato used to just topple Seabass over? She wanted to play, but she didn’t know how. She would mow him down.” We laugh, and for a minute Cato comes back to life.

I think back to those days when Seabass was three or four, when we first brought Cato home. It was a little terrifying at the time, but now it’s just funny, who she was when she came to us, who she became to us.

When Jagger, our first dog, died, I was young, and Dan and I had a young family. I worried that perhaps I took him for granted, that I could have given him more attention and affection, but with Cato, I don’t feel that way.

I took her on long walks almost every day until just a few months ago. We rehabilitated her through two knee surgeries, so she could keep hiking with us. I took her to the lake on my solo trips. She and I hiked together, just the two of us, often, and we went out to the dock together. She loved the lake cabin. She loved sitting outside in the sun. She loved the sun. I started setting up a bed for her in the garden, and when we had outdoor fires, we let her wonder off leash. It was a slight risk, but it was worth it. She loved being with us. When she got sick, we did everything possible to make her feel comfortable and loved, and when she told us it was time, we listened. In her life and in her diagnosis, illness and death, Dan and I did right by her.

I don’t feel guilty. I’m just so, so sad, and usually when I’m this sad, she is there.

When Jagger died, I remember thinking I’ve never loved like this before. I feel that again now. Jagger broke me open, and Cato broke me open even more. Maybe that’s the best we can hope for in our grief, that we become softer and more open to receiving the love that is offered to us. The very reason it is so hard when a pet dies is that they are pure vessels of love. Perhaps the best we can do is channel some of that love, both for ourselves and others, as we move through the world.

Grief changes us. I’m trying to connect the pieces of who I was, to who I am, to who I want to be. I return to The Name of the Wind.

“How odd to watch a mortal kindle, There to dwindle day by day, Knowing their bright souls are tinder And the wind will have its way, Would I could my own fire lend, What does your flickering portend?”

Reading has been hard lately. Cato is not here to keep me company, and I’m finding it difficult to focus without the steady background of her breath. I know this is not where the story ends. I know the hollow, echoing quiet is not all there is, but I can’t seem to turn the page.