Ernie and Grieving

He lived a long, good dog life, with many adventures, even joining me cross country when he was a year and a half old, going to Minnesota, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Louisville, visiting Graceland in Memphis and the Grand Canyon (which he did not care for).  He traveled to Vancouver, Canada, to Santa Barbara, and up into the Sierra foothills often. And he knew the southern shoreline of Alameda Point, between the USS Hornet Museum and Encinal High, like the back of his paw.

In a group of people, I once knew G—if you spoke of dog issues around G, she always knew more than you did. Another dog-owner was grieving for the dog she had to put down; G interrupted at length to talk of how great her own loss had been, how incomparable G’s dog was before she died, how great their bond. She cried, and we learned not to grieve for a pet around G, or you’d be held hostage to her greater grief.  Ever since, when someone speaks to me of their grief over losing a pet, I try to listen, not to talk.

Yet I’ve been unable to tell anyone about Ernie until this. I’m not able to hear anyone else’s grief right now, either.  While I sat on the floor at the SPCA with Ernie, petting him, trying to saying goodbye while he clearly just wanted to leave the room, the doctor tried to console me, telling me about his own golden retriever who lived to be 17 and was eager for life until the end, despite her physical deterioration. He was wonderful, and did a great job of easing Ernie out, without discomfort. But it’s the journey we all make alone, isn’t it?

Several months ago, out along the Alameda shoreline where I walk our black lab, Edie, I met a dog-owner who asked how old she was.  I told him she is ten now, and he proudly talked of his mid-sized shepherd, who had just turned 17. And then he broke down, crying. The dog was his best friend, and he knew the end was near. As he drove away, I felt awful—I had the sense he lived alone, and I could barely imagine the looming emptiness for him.

Our sweet black lab Edie is a dog, happily so, with her ultra-sensitive canine nose and her love of doggy meanderings out on patrol. We have a fridge magnet; “Dogs think they’re human, cats think they’re divine.”  Edie has always been happily a dog, while Ernie wanted to fit in with humanity. We are lucky, my wife and I with our cats and our Edie girl. We won’t be alone. And yet Ernie was such a part of the family. He would just watch us, my wife and I, looking for a cue. Dragging himself up off his bed when we got home, leveraging himself forward on his forelegs, trying to get his better hindleg under him, wagging stiffly as he approached, his particular Ernie-whine of happy greeting.  After the missus and I decided it was time, it wasn’t going to get any better for him, that became even harder.  From the collar down, he was a mess, but from the neck up, he was ever my trusting, loving dog, looking to me for a cue.

He had this odd habit toward the end, like the dog in the manger. He would crawl or walk over to the bed Edie was on, and lie down next to her, or force her to move and give the bed to him. And she often would. But that last morning she stayed on the bed, and he lay down next to her.

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