Sunday, December 1, 2013

The Grieving of Animals

I had no intention of plastering this all over the internet or telling everyone about it, but while part of me is doing okay with this new change in my life, another part of me is in a lot of pain. I know this blog is to be dedicated to other things, but writing has always helped me work through things, so please bear with me.


My family and I lost our dog on Saturday afternoon. I keep playing it over and over when I have too much time to think which makes me melt inside.

My mother carried our dog, Chloe, to the car and into the vet's office. It reminded me of the moment in Big Fish when the son carries his father. Putting Chloe on the bench in the waiting room and watching her stare at the floor, her front paws dangling over the front still hurts. She would look up and put her head on my knee before letting her head go back to that spot on the floor she was so concentrated on. We brought the blanket from her bed for her to lie on before she left our world to join Heaven, so while my mother carried her into the room on the end, I carried her blanket.

My mother and I agreed she was ready to go. She had stopped eating anything, with the exception of Thanksgiving when she ate some turkey wholeheartedly. But after that, she didn't want anything, not even her favorite foods. As a dog who loved peanut butter as much as the rest of my family, she had stopped eating it a week ago, even if it was held in front of her while she laid in bed. She was losing her fur rapidly in the season she should be keeping it and was getting unsure of her footing. She fell twice. She was an old lady ready to move on, we just weren't listening to her.

Watching her before the doctors came into the room and talking to her, while we stroked her fur and held her paw was one of the hardest moments. I didn't want to tell her what was happening. I'm sure she knew, but I just couldn't say it out loud. I didn't want to. I didn't want to say it.

When it was all over and I was still holding her paw, I realized I had never winked at her in her last moments. She was always winking at me. We would get into staring contests that would often end with her winking at me. Likely, she did it by accident, but it never stopped me from winking back. Until then. And by then, I just couldn't. I got up looking at her body and how she was gone. Part of me wanted to keep holding on to her but the other part gently reminded me that it was just a body; she, as I knew her, was gone.

I had been strong for my mother before we left and got into that room, but once it was over she was the strong one. She held me as I hung onto her before we had the courage to get back into the car, without Chloe, and go home.


I have experienced grief before, with the death of family members at ages I was aware of death and ages I was not. It was hard and difficult and I still wonder to this day if I actually finished the poem I was reading at my grandmother's funeral or if my cousin did have to come up to the podium to help me finish.

The point being, this death is harder for me. My first pet died. The first animal that I lived with from 9 weeks old to almost 14 years. I taught her tricks and trained her. I played with her. I talked to her. I kept her company when she was scared. I gave her baths. I gave her chin rubs. I took her on walks. I took her on car rides. All those things. She was my sister, as a girl who had always dreamed of having a sibling.

I keep looking for her, even though I know she's not there. I keep thinking she's around the corner or I'll hear her nails on the floor (she hated cutting her nails - must have got that from me) or her collar shake, even though I know it's in a box near my bed.

I miss her so much and even though I know she hated it, I want to give her another long hug so badly.

But she's gone. And she's in a better place. She's there with her brother who died years before her that I know she missed so much when he moved away. I'm sure they're playing and having a blast and that my grandparents are keeping a good eye on her for us. And none of them are in pain any more.


I keep thinking of her beautiful brown eyes and the depth I saw in them everyday. Even though she couldn't tell me outright how she felt, I always thought I could see it in her eyes, if I looked hard enough. Chloe is the reason I understand how important animals are in our lives and how 'human' they are. She taught me that on a daily basis. Which is why I've always looked into an animal's eyes when I met one, in order to see them more clearly. What I really think I'll see from now on though are Chloe's eyes staring back at me, winking.


"Look here, all of you," he said entreatingly, as soon as Nana had gone into the bathroom. "I have just thought of a splendid joke. I shall pour my medicine into Nana's bowl, and she will drink it, thinking it is milk!"
It was the colour of milk; but the children did not have their father's sense of humour, and they looked at him reproachfully as he poured the medicine into Nana's bowl. "What fun!" he said doubtfully, and they did not dare expose him when Mrs. Darling and Nana returned.
"Nana, good dog," he said, patting her, "I have put a little milk into your bowl, Nana."
Nana wagged her tail, ran to the medicine, and began lapping it. Then she gave Mr. Darling such a look, not an angry look: she showed him the great red tear that makes us so sorry for noble dogs, and crept into her kennel.
-excerpt from Peter Pan [Peter & Wendy], by J. M. Barrie