Treats from my Sister/Master
April had come to the house after work on Sunday night. By then she had seen that we needed to do the right thing and let Dusty go. Being very much like her father, I know how difficult it was for her to give up the fight. She had stepped in between Cori and me on Friday night and taken my side by insisting that no matter what she needed to do, she would take Dusty the following weekend while we were away. I’m sure she was frantically trying to figure out a way to get Dusty to eat and was certain that she would succeed if she only had a few days alone with Dusty. After spending so many sleepless nights the past few weeks nearly obsessed with the same problem, I could almost hear her mind spinning as we spoke on the phone.
April went immediately into the laundry room where Dusty was lying down. She lie on the cool floor next to her and spoke quietly. After a few minutes Jadan wandered in carrying a bag of Goldfish crackers. Somehow after 5 days of not eating April was able to convince Dusty to eat several of the crackers. Then she coaxed her into drinking more water then she had in days. To me, this was Dusty’s way of saying to April, “Yes, you are my master and I am your dog.” To understand the significance of this you’d have to have experienced the times when April was younger and Dusty had seized the opportunity to place herself ahead of April in the family “pack”. It was an interesting struggle and a battle that Dusty did not back away from easily. She was now setting everything in order and made it very clear that she belonged to April and would do anything she asked.
A late night conversation
Late Sunday night, after the scorching temperatures of the day had eased a bit, I carried Dusty out onto the front lawn. After a few minutes she seemed to fall asleep and I, totally exhausted, lay down on the sofa on the front porch. I fell asleep too and sometime later, heard a sound. I opened my eyes and saw that Cori had come outside and was on the lawn next to Dusty. I couldn’t hear a word but got the sense that Cori was speaking to Dusty in a very soft and comforting tone of voice. Part if me wanted to join them but another part knows that this might be their last chance to say goodbye. I closed my eyes and dozed off. After a time, I have no idea how long, the front door opened again. This time when I looked, Cori had brought Miles out into the yard and I knew that she had brought him out to say goodbye to his sister. Did she bring Cleo as well and I slept through it? I don’t know, actually the whole thing could have been a dream. By this time my mind was completely spinning from exhaustion and the realization of what I was going to do on Monday.
Conversation with Mr. Ho
On Sunday afternoon, Corine had arranged for Bin to go to the fireworks show in Olympia with a Vietnamese family. Having brought Dusty outside, I was sitting on the front steps while she lay in the grass when Mr. Ho pulled into the driveway. I stood up to greet him but instead his gaze went right to Dusty. He looked over at me and said “What is wrong with you dog?” “She’s very old and very sick.” I replied, and then blurted out “Tomorrow is her last day”, and made a sleeping motion with my hands. Somehow I know that he would understand. He asked me if she had ever had puppies and then, stepping closer, said “In my country, a dog that’s lived a good life like this comes back as a child.” I’m sure I looked very surprised and he repeated himself saying, “It’s true, a dog like this comes back… as a child”. He shook my hand and started to leave but then stepped into the yard, walking right up to Dusty. “I love you dog” he said, “I love you!” With that he left me with many more questions then answers…
Is he a Buddhist? I can only assume so. Could what he said be true? I can only hope so. Would she go “somewhere” as Dusty? Would her life-force be changed into another form? Or would it mingled with something else…or everything else? Would I ever see or even sense her again? Or am I too much in the “now” to sense it if she were able to connect somehow?
One thing is for certain. The passing of my dear friend and companion is affecting me like nothing else ever has. How many times have I cried the last few weeks? How many highs were followed by defeats as she lost her fight? Or was it me that was fighting as the wise old dog simply followed her destiny willingly? This is the closest I’ve ever been to death and more so, the “process” of death. The process itself is like feeling your fingers pulled away one at a time from something you are trying to hang onto with all of your might. Incredibly painful and difficult to experience, but something that goes hand in hand with a life-long friendship.
Last Goodbye
Corine and I went into the exam room, I carrying Dusty. She stood on the table trying to find the strength to simply lie down. Dr. Bennett stepped into the room and seeing her difficulty, stepped back out to get a towel. He returned, and spread the towel on the table, and Cori and I helped her to lie down.
Dr. Bennett then explained that he was going to give Dusty an injection of “the same sedative we gives dogs that come in with a mouth full of porcupine quills”. As he injected her with the sedative he said, “This will make her feel better then she has in weeks”. Corine and I both replied “Good” as if we were speaking with one voice. He then very quietly left the room, leaving the three of us alone. Within seconds,Dusty’s breathing changed, from the struggle and panting I had become accustomed to; to a peaceful and quiet pattern that I had forgotten existed. We both stroked her fur and spoke quietly to her. Twice she quivered as you do when you are falling into a deep sleep, her muscles, held tense for days, or weeks on end, finally relaxing. Cori and I stood over her lost in the peacefulness that she was finally experiencing. Suddenly, she lifted her head slightly and, reaching her tongue out, found the back of my hand and gave me a kiss. I was too shocked to say a word but Cori whispered, “She’s saying thank you daddy”. We both broke into sobs and before I could regain my composure, another, even more amazingly long reach of her tongue found my hand. This time I “felt” the words “Thank You” and “Goodbye” in my mind. I didn’t hear a voice but clearly felt the words. I knew then that Dusty understood what we were doing and that the three of us were linked as one being, with total clarity and no regrets. She was releasing me from my duty as care-giver and was prepared and happy for whatever was coming next. What I wouldn’t know until the next day was that Dusty would soon be somehow relaying her experience across the world to Matthew.
As if on queue, Dr. Bennett quietly returned to the room. He walked around to our side of the table and pulled a small shaver and syringe from his lab coat. Shaving a small spot on Dusty’s ankle, he than placed the needle into her leg. He whispered “this will only take a few seconds” and began injecting the fluid. Cori and I both reached out to stroke Dusty’s head and I remember whispering “Off you go” into her ear. My feeling was almost one of happiness that she was being released from the tough times of the last several weeks. It took only seconds for the medicine to do its work and Dr. Bennett placed the stethoscope to her chest and quietly said “She’s gone”. The three of us stood there silently for just a few more seconds and without saying a word or even exchanging a glance, Cori and I both moved towards the door. I paused for a moment, thanking Dr. Bennett and pushed back the urge to hug him. As I walked out the door I took one glance back and saw him gently wrapping the towel around Dusty.
Thankfully, there was no one in the waiting room as we left. We walked outside and Cori turned around to hug me. Her support and understanding are something I’ll never forget and will always be thankful for. How many times in the last few weeks had she simply placed a towel over a urine stain or silently cleaned up vomit? More than I can count. How far Cori has come from the girl I knew 30 years ago. Another person changed for the better by this dog. She had also been the one to gently lead me away from my stance that “we can win this battle” to an understanding that winning really meant the surrender that we had just experienced. Had Dusty waited patiently for Cori to convince me or had they worked together? Was that the topic of their conversation in the lawn on Sunday night? “He understands now. It’s almost over.” Completely absorbed by my role as Care-giver and Problem-solver, I was the last to see our options had disappeared. Thankfully, my girls, one at a time, had seen the truth and embraced it.
Matthew's Dream
On Monday night, I had a telephone conversion with Matthew and told him about the days events. After letting me speak, he began to tell me about a dream he had the night before. What he didn’t know was that just seconds into his story, our phones disconnected. It was several minutes before we reconnected and I had missed nearly the entire thing. He gave me the quick version but it wasn’t until later that what he had to say sunk in. The next day, I watched for him on the internet and asked him to write his dream down for me. The dream, which he had at almost the same moment that we were with Dusty at the Veterinarians office follows: