She won’t struggle to get up again. She won’t sprawl on the floor and wait for one of us to reach under her ribcage and pull her upright.
She won’t stagger across the floor as if drunk again, her hind quarters listing to one side as she navigates from rug to rug on the treacherous hardwood floor.
She won’t suffer incontinence any more, or the indignity of a quick rub down of her hind quarters with a rubbing alcohol–soaked washcloth, to clean her up.
She won’t struggle up any stairs again, needing one of us to reach an arm under her ribs to help her galumph laboriously up stairs she used to sprint up in a few bounds.
It was time, and today for the final time Edie heard that magic word “ride” before going to the SPCA.
More than our other dogs she was an independent spirit, and bold, too. Many years ago we visited friends in the San Juan islands and went for a dog walk before we caught our ferry back to Anacortes. Except Edie caught wind of something she had to investigate. A deer? Perhaps.
She took off through the woods as we called and called, looking for her. We had visions of missing our boat. Finally she came crashing through the undergrowth after her adventure. I was so happy to see her and so ticked off at her—she spent the rest of that walk on the leash while the two other dogs wandered free.
And yet some part of me was proud of her, for her adventure.
I’ve written elsewhere about the time she was enlisted to free a least tern colony of jackrabbits, before the delicate birds returned to breed. I still volunteer there, and as I look at the colony with all its shallow nests and shells, mimicking beach habitat, I remember my girl bounding around inside the fence, nose to the ground, looking for any sneaky rabbits that remained.
When she was young and she had secured some prize, she joyously bounded the length of the house with her treat or toy held high, “I’ve got the pri-ize, Look at me! I’ve got the pri-ize!” then collapse on a dog bed and enjoy her treasure.
Walk was her favorite word, even better than dinner or ride, and walk we did, long routes stretching all four directions from home, routes she knew and explored with her eyes, and ears and especially nose, routes she knew in ways I never will, in ways she could never express to me, except through the body language of a dog, letting me know what places interested her and which directions she wanted to take.
By the end she stayed home more and more. She’d watch as Nora and I prepared to go out, her head would lift, sometimes her shoulders rose with effort, but her body was no longer as able, and she would slump back down on the bed.
Last Wednesday morning she surprised me by following us to the door, insisting to come along, so I brought her out to the shoreline park she knew so well, had known for the 14 years she was with us. She limped along with Nora and me, sniffing and exploring one last time. I’m so glad she had that last visit.
We named her Edie Adams, the wife and comedienne partner of Ernie Kovacs. And for a decade she was a partner with our dear old Ernie.
We did the DNA testing thing, which re-affirmed what we knew, Black Lab Mix, and surprised us with news of some Boxer, Airedale, English and Irish Setter, too. She used her forepaws more than any of our other dogs, batting objects to manipulate them, as Boxers are prone to do. We wondered if her independence was an expression of that Airedale and Boxer heritage.
She was bold, the boldest dog we’ve ever had. When raccoons raised a nightly ruckus at the back of our yard, both dogs would charge out our back deck. Ernie would stop at the top of the stairs and look back to me, what should we do now, boss? But Edie never slowed. She led the charge the length of the backyard, ready to establish her authority.
While Ernie was the typical dog who wants to be people, ever shepherd watchful of us, Edie was always a dog, happy to be a dog, making sense of the world in her easy-going Labrador way. And oh, she could be joyous.
Good friends of ours are done with pets. The loss is too great, and I understand the heart ache. I still counter-balance it with the joy of days and months and years of companionship, despite our sadness today.
Goodbye, our sweet old girl. We will always miss you.
This is heartbreaking. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thanks, A.
Maybe I should have waited a day before writing that up, when it’s a little less raw.
If anything, i invite you to look at the pictures in the “she could be joyous” link.
That’s how I’m remembering her.
So very difficult, Ben, I am so very sorry. I know how much it hurts. Listening for their footsteps, perhaps their bark…big sigh.
This was a hard yet beautiful read. I’m so sorry for your loss. And glad, too, that Edie was able to get in one last visit to the shoreline park.
Thanks, J. There are big empty places around the house now. We took out the large dog bed, as our little Nora doesn’t need it. Knowing it’s part of the life cycle is cold comfort at best, but I try to focus on having had her in our lives for nearly 14 years, a pretty good run in the too-short scheme of dog lives.
Thanks, Robin. I maybe wrote it when emotions were still too close to the surface. It’s why I added the berserker post, which is I think a more fitting memory for the dear girl.
Yes, her wanting to join us for that last walk along the shore was a gift.