On the natural death of our 17 year-old dog, Pepper
On October 9th, 2018, we lost our beautiful girl, Pepper. She was a Chinese Shar-pei/mutt who we adopted at about 9 months old. We were a new couple, living in a rental farm house in the spectacular rolling countryside of Iowa City, Iowa. We had a huge fenced in yard. And through our roommate we met Chris, the guy who was looking to re-home Pepper. We had no reason to say no. She seemed sweet enough, if a little standoff-ish.
Within days we discovered a metal choke chain that was so tight around her neck, hidden by her fur, that Chad had to actually cut off with bolt cutters. That’s how tight it was. For her whole life she had a scar in the back of her neck where hair didn’t grow.
I remember she could catch birds that were flying between bushes in that yard. That’s how fast she was. Stealth. One time there was a massive groundhog under our front porch and Pepper pulled that creature right out backing up one way. She had scars on her big face from that encounter for her whole life. She was so damn determined and proud to get that critter out of there.
During our time in that house, I had graduated from college and Chad started back at college — and he would take Pepper out for hours a day with good friends who had 2 dogs. When they swam, Pepper would use her tail as a rotor, and that is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
Flash forward about 5 years or so from that time, and we would have a first baby, at the first home we owned in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. The yard was a great deal smaller, but Pepper was quite at peace with it all, as was always her way. She liked to sit in the tiger lilies along the neighbor’s garage.
One time we were taking Pepper on a walk along the levy at the Cedar River and an ambulance was approaching, siren blaring. Pepper sat down and ever so calmly and quietly started howling. It was so quiet we had to kneel next to her to hear it. It was the only time in her whole life I ever knew her to howl. It was somehow so delightful in its strangeness.
When our first baby had just turned 1 year old, that levy down the road failed & our entire neighborhood, our house, all our belongings, were almost instantly under 12 feet of the Cedar River. We stayed with friends who lived nearby but on higher ground. We had flood insurance on the structure (everything else was just a loss) and used the opportunity to get out from under our house in Cedar Rapids and buy a home in the country of North Liberty, Iowa. It really was our dream home. Pepper had a great back deck overlooking the woods and her domain. She had a spot by the fire pit that was really dry and dusty that she used to roll around in to take what we called “dust baths.” She was incredibly at peace just sitting outdoors.
Unless there were fireworks.
The door to our back deck was old and in disrepair, and Chad had taken everything apart, replaced the framing, and placed a new door. We forgot to bring Pepper inside before we left to see fireworks on the 4th of July and I said when we were there, ‘that was a bad idea.’ Sure enough when we got home the poor girl had destroyed the new wooden framing cause she was so scared when there were loud noises. She never did care for storms either. We always thought maybe she had been abused by kids when she was a puppy, or just around loud obnoxious people, because she definitely gravitated towards and moved through the world with a great sense of peace and tranquility.
From North Liberty, in another five years, we would move to Costa Rica, now with 2 young kids. Even at this time, in 2014, we were concerned for Pepper’s health. She was getting “senior,” but wasn’t acting much like it. She was always so relaxed, sleeping most of the time, unless she was chasing critters out of her yard.
In Costa Rica, the first time we took her to the beach, she so loved the freedom of being off leash that she just took off running and didn’t look back. We were at the south side of Playa Conchal, and this beach is long. Chad had to run after her for quite some time before catching up with her. She just ran parallel to the water’s edge and kept on going.
Her favorite spots were on our balconies or patios, watching the world around her. When she got hot she would put her tail in her water bowl.
Coming back to the States, in October 2015, I was worried again. She was totally fine, again. We lived with a generous family member for a couple of weeks where we got our bearings and found an apartment. During that 2 weeks Pepper loved being in his big fenced yard in Georgia. She basically only came inside to sleep at night.
Apartment living commenced, but lasted only for about 9 months, before we bought our townhouse closer to my work in Atlanta. No yard. Just a concrete patio and a lifeless side yard. I was sad for Pepper, but in Chad’s words, she sort of retired in Atlanta. Her last few years were extra restful, and quiet, and probably for the last 9 months or so we have noticed her slowing down, sleeping more, walking slower, and not really hearing or seeing as well.
Can I talk about death? It’s such a taboo in our country. Which is truly a disservice to us all. I struggled immensely in Pepper’s last few weeks on earth. I actually was unable to find useful information about dogs dying naturally at home until after she passed. You know, I could find “signs your pet is dying of old age.” I was beyond that point. I wanted to know, or try to know, what she was going through, be more informed as I moved through this new territory of natural death. Online, everything is about euthanasia as the kind option, the humane option; discussion of natural death and the process that unfolds is so taboo that I couldn’t even find it when I needed it most. (That’s part of the reason I’m writing this essay.)
It was clear, in a gradual way, that she was checking out and moving on. I am grateful that I had a few weeks to give her extra attention, lie next to her and talk to her, take pictures, and begin to process her approaching death.
I feel selfish for saying all of those things, because of course I can’t say exactly what or how Pepper was feeling. She was not in suffering that was apparent, or obvious, and we agreed 100% that we didn’t feel it was our place to decide her moment of death, nor would she want that herself (if she were asked, and could respond).
It was good & VITAL to know that really truly. Because seeing her die for weeks was possibly the worst thing I have ever experienced. Just knowing this creature who I love so dearly, who was faithfully by our sides for 17 years, was preparing to leave us. It was devastating, haunting, and I couldn’t focus on normal life at all. Every day I would come home wondering if today was the day. Every moment the tape was on a loop in my mind — is she in pain? Is she holding on when she should be letting go? Am I doing the right thing, letting her die “naturally?”
When I finally found some information through a website known as souls in transition, Pepper was already gone and I confirmed what I knew already. We had done the right thing. We had given her her space at the end of her life, we had respected the rhythms of nature, her own instincts to stop eating, and later to stop drinking, her withdrawal into herself and the final moments, when we were with her, and her heart stopped beating. I can’t sit here and say it was easy or comfortable. But in its own way, the process of death was beautiful. I think only Pepper could have made it that way.
She accepted every step. With peace and intention, she simply stopped eating.
She didn’t stop using the stairs until 3 days before she died. Even then she was going up and down our stairs ever so slowly. Sometimes I would walk alongside her to spot her, and she would just stop and wait for me to get on with it. She was not having that. So I would give her her space and down the stairs she would go, alone, thank you very much.
She was going outside to go potty even on her last day alive.
Her quality of life seemed as good as it could possibly be. Of course, I worried she was hungry, but truly in considering that worry it seems silly. There is no reason to think that when the body is shutting down, that a creature would feel hunger anymore. It serves no purpose any longer. And so it goes.
Her last day was hard. She had trouble walking for the first time in her whole journey towards death. She vomited rather profusely and seemed disoriented. I questioned myself, more harshly than before, and thought it was time to make the call. But Pepper just laid back down and slept. Slept, slept, slept. That day I witnessed her fully surrender to death, sprawled out sleeping, exhausted, peaceful and beautiful. She accepted it all seemingly without struggle, anger, or sadness. We always said she was zen. She lived in the moment. She exuded an impossible grace.
We woke up at about 4:45 am and she was still breathing, but non responsive. We both laid next to her and talked to her, petting her ever so gently. Laid a dry towel under her head because she was drooling. Chad said a prayer for her. After only 2 or 3 minutes her head moved back and up, like if she had been standing, she would have been looking at the sky. And her two front legs came up too like she was reaching out to lean on a tree and bark at a squirrel. I think this is when her soul left her body. “From the darkness we emerge, and into the darkness we return” (paraphrased from one of my favorite inspirations, John O’Donohue).
I think the worst part of death is all the questions that ran through my mind afterwards & continue to haunt me. My grief wells up at completely unpredictable times. Did I take her for granted? (yes.) Did it hurt to die? Where is she now? (I don’t know.) Is “she” even anywhere anymore? That concept is the hardest for my human mind to grasp. I grew up without religion, and sometimes, I wish I had it. A fluff to stuff into the cracks of my psyche and absorb the acid of all the terrible uncertainties and unanswered questions.
All I have is reality. Her body breathed some final breaths, and then her journey was over. I howled, with pain and gratefulness, that she had waited for us to be with her, and that she had been such a steady and peaceful presence in our lives (which were oftentimes anything but steady or peaceful) for so long. While I dreaded the thought of the inevitable, I yearned with all my being for the chance to be with her when she left this world and she gave that to me. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to death. I felt like a great flower of mystery was opened for me.
The gifts Pepper gave us were many, but the final gift was lifting the veil on natural death. Giving us the opportunity to let her die at home, with her people, and dictated only by nature. 17 years of teaching us to live in the now. Accept what is. Bask in the beauty of life AND death.
“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.” (Mary Oliver)