A year ago today...

Dear little Willie, it was a year ago today that we went to the groomer for your usual St. Patrick's Day haircut.  You proudly strutted out the door fully aware of the little green bow attached to your collar and how handsome you looked.  

We had an appointment with our vet, Dr. Waag, later in the day to check into the cough you had that awakened us several times each night over the past week.  As little dogs age, that often develop problems with the little bones in the trachea which may cause coughing. The vet didn't sound worried when I called after the first night of coughing saying to give it a few days and see if it went away.  It didn't. 

You were nervous as always when we walked into Dr. Waag's foreboding clinic.  You sniffed around for a few seconds settling under the bench where I usually sat  when waiting.  You always loved sitting on my lap but here you were nervous, preferring to sit on the floor near my legs, your cold little nose tapping my leg every so often, your little front leg touching mine.  In an animated tone, I reassured you that nothing bad would happen.  But you remembered the last painful shots you'd had here and how tightly we held you to keep your from squirming.

Dr. Waag warmly greeted us while walking us to the big scale.  You stepped on without hesitation remembering that it was your Mom that hated the scale at the doctor's office, not you.  You'd lost 2 pounds.  We had been walking everyday all winter so maybe that attributed to the weight loss. No big deal, right?

They took you out of the exam room for an x-ray while you looked at me with those expressive eyes, asking, "Why are they taking me away from you?"  Again I reassured you and minutes later you were back in the room with me, anxiously sniffing around the room, contemplating a few spritzes to which I gently said, "no bad potty." You came and sat by me, again your little nose tapping my leg. Ten minutes later, Dr. Waag came back to the exam room with a sad look on his face, one that we had seen three years earlier, the day we let your brother BenBenBen go to doggie heaven.

The news was heart wrenching.  You had a mass that filled your chest cavity, pressing onto your lungs and heart.  We'd have to wait several days to have the U of M veterinary department review the test results and determine the prognosis.

The next few days were a haze. Dad and I speculated on the outcome trying not to imagine the worst. The coughing at night escalated to awakening us every 2 hours during which you'd jump off the bed, frightened and confused until the frenzied coughing jag ended and gingerly climb up your pet steps back on the bed nuzzling up against me. Our hearts were breaking for you, for us.  

Five days later, Dr. Waag called with the worst possible news.  You would only last two more weeks until your heart and lungs were crowded out by the savage, malignant tumor.  We had imagined, months, not weeks.  Surgery and traditional treatment were not viable options.  Our precious little WorldWideWillie's life was about to end. 

I took this photo of you the night we got the worst news. 

You dragged your toys onto our bed, up the two sets of pet steps 

in order to rest your weary head.

The rest of the story, the 17 days you lasted, as detailed in the beginning of this blog, were some of the most bittersweet, memorable days of my life spending every precious moment with you, whether up with you all night while you coughed or, during the days when you seldom coughed.  You figured out that you wouldn't cough when you were standing so you often stood next to me wherever I was, your eyes half shut with exhaustion, teetering on your little legs.  

We continued our daily walks, however slowly, with many rest stops in between.  The walks made you happy, made me cry.  We went to Petco, your favorite. We went for rides in the car with the windows open so you could stick your head out and "bite the air." We sat outside in the warm sun, your head turned skyward "sniffing the air.  We didn't sleep.  We didn't care.  We just wanted to be with you.

So, I write this to you today to tell you that we haven't forgotten you and that we thank you for the lessons we learned about unconditional love, a concept nearly impossible to behold among us humans... a gift that Mother Nature has bestowed upon us humans enabling us to love her amazing creatures, blending us into one family that fulfills our lives in a magical way.

On the anniversary of the day you left us, April 9, 2011,  I will write for the final time in this blog to begin a new chapter in our lives, a new blog.

(Please visit us at: www.worldwidewaftage.blogspot.com) 

I will let you go, our dear Willie, not the memories but the sorrow, not the endearing stories, but the pain.  

Your last day...

I can't put these three things away...

OK, it's a bit odd, these three items sitting on our bar counter top; the half of the dog cookie with the DREADED PILL still stuck in the frosting that DadDadDad found in between the sofa cushions on the last day of your life; one of the homemade dog cookies I baked this past Christmas that I found hidden in a shoe in my closet; the beef bone you so carefully maintained outside all winter for which I posted a video here, that our grandson Vincent found when looking for Easter eggs , that you had reburied in an obscure spot in the yard a few days before you died.  I can't throw them away. 

The toys, except the two I have kept near me, your snake and Tiger Woods, went into the attic with the two sets of pet steps along with your "pet bed" (as we so lovingly called it, when your eyes were sleepy but you weren't ready for our bed), your water bowl, harness and leash, all painfully put out of sight in a futile effort to minimize the sorrow.

These three items remain in plain view for five weeks now, haunting me, reminding me

of your busy little life, filled with the plotting and the planning of the daily

routines you so methodically entertained.

We miss you WorldWideWillie.  We miss you chasing the h..o..n...k...e...r...s off of the lawn, now hugging our shoreline with a multitude of babies in tow.  We miss saying "get that bird" when the heron sat on the dock, as if awaiting your enthusiastic bark to send him on his way for which

he honked at you as his massive wings took flight. 

The bald eagle has swooped into the trees, looking down for you, hoping to lift you up with his foreboding talons, for his tasty meal and you aren't there.  We miss your inquisitive sniffing of the rip rap shoreline hoping to encounter a dead fish that you could drag onto the lawn to roll on  so we could laugh.  We miss sitting on the dock with a line in the water with you eagerly affixing your gaze on the red bobber, awaiting the catch of the day.

A few days ago, on a rare warm day, I sat in the rocking lawn chair, expecting you to jump up any moment bestowing those slurpy kisses on my face while firmly planting your butt on a comfy spot on my lap.  How can I ever enjoy sitting there soaking up the warmth

of the sun without you?

Eventually, these three little items will be gently wrapped and placed in the attic along with your other things, with the expectation of someday rediscovering them and to be reminded of how hard it was to let you go.  After all, its only been five weeks, and they will be put away when I stop counting the weeks on my fingers since you've been gone... and feeling the heaviness in

my heart without you. 

Grief can be a fast moving train...

Grief, a fast moving train, bound for oblivion, overcomes us. We can let it derail our lives or we can grab a seat in the cushioned arms of those who love us. I chose the latter seeking solace and comfort from my family and friends who so willingly embraced the challenge, never minimizing the degree of my suffering by saying that it was "only a dog," or "that he lived a full happy life." I miss my Willie. My heart aches for him.

In quiet reflection, I asked my psyche, my spirituality and my body to guide me healthfully through this painful process. Answers came easily.  I increased my workout efforts, fed myself healthful foods, allowing my brain to shut off at night, welcoming dreamless sleep. I know what I have to do. 

 I gathered unhealed grief from recent times and invited it to join in this pool of sorrow, having been tucked away to face at another time…and now, the time was here. 

Two days after we lost him, it was Monday.  DDD had gone off to work early and for the first time in almost 12 years I was truly alone.  I didn’t bolt out of bed to let him out to go “good potty,” or to slightly warm a bowl of his homemade food in the microwave or pour him a bowl of fresh water, or to listen for his gentle knock at the door when he was ready to come inside.  I know what I have to do.

I took the walk to Poop Park alone, no little red harness, no leash in hand, no WorldWideWillie. Retracing the steps we took each day, soft paper towel in hand sopping up tears along the way; no little red harness, no leash in hand, no WorldWideWillie. 

Warming my hands in the cold air, I reached into my pocket to find the plastic bag we never needed to use since he refused to poop in front of me all of his little life.  He’d go for DDD but not me.  He had private places to go away from my view.  I often giggled about it thinking it was a guy-girl thing, the way we are shy about bodily functions when we first are in love.

It’s been ten days today.  I miss him so. Each night I expect to feel his tiny body nuzzled up to my feet, resting his weary chin on my outstretched foot and lying quietly all night, occasionally annoyed by my stirring after which he would reposition himself, digging in his chin to this familiar resting spot. 

The pet steps are still there, the toys, neatly stacked in his little bed.  Each day I put away another reminder knowing full well that doing so is a part of the healing.  I know what I have to do.

This Monday, a week after the lonely first walk, I decided not to cry for a few days and to laugh in its place. To laugh about the nose prints still on the inside of the glass in my car, to laugh at the treats we have found tucked into sofa cushions or hidden under furniture, to laugh seeing Max, the dog next store, digging into the spot where Willie had hidden a bone in the neighbor’s yard on the day he died, as a token of his friendship to the dogs he loved.

The corner has been turned; the healing as a natural progression that nature has given us, with the skills and desire to move on.  There still will be tears. There still will be a sudden sob with a wave of pain in our chests. There still will be his missing Easter basket filled with treats and toys.  There still will be the fishing off the dock without his excitement over the bouncing red bobber. There still will be the 4^th of July without him shivering on my lap.  There still will be an m...o...u...s…e or an s…q…u running up a tree. 

But I know what I have to do and I am doing it.

We love you Willie.  We always will.


MMM