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A Non-Exhaustive List Of Things I Learned When My Dog Died
Living in my 30s without the dog who delivered me through my 20s
This week I realized that I missed our anniversary. The day a small 20-year-old girl met a small, unknown-aged dog and the two became a perfect match. In years past — fifteen of them now — I would post a picture of him and tell a story about his quirky personality and unwavering devotion. I forgot this year because I’m thinking too much about how, in a couple of months, we’ll have a whole new anniversary.
On October 1, I’ll be remembering the perfectly crisp, sunny afternoon when an angel on earth came to our home and, as I laid next to him and thanked him, helped him rest at last. Then she took him, swaddled, in her car, looking as peaceful and pefect as ever. And in my dark humor, I turned to my partner and wondered “how many dead dogs do you think she has in that little Prius, anyway?”
At this time last year, I knew he was going soon, but not that soon. His coughing had increased — a sign of heart failure — and he wasn’t eating very well because the heart medicine had caused his kidneys to weaken. We were in an organ race, waiting to see which one would give up first.
Because I am a childfree hag, Indiana was the center of my life. He and I orbited each other…
