notes before the dirge for the dog

I have always said she would stay as long as we needed her and that is how it was . . . it’s what I’ve been telling myself since I held her little frail, sick and confused body last.

Almost 16 years ago she found and she chose us.

A snappy, sharp one year old who chose to spend time alone exploring the 3/4 acre wood that was our yard.

When she nipped, she drew blood in her own defense protecting herself from the inebriated unwelcome and sober suspect guests without barking ever.

When the baby came, she became a guardian.

I realized she was a healer. She connected to me and our divorce seasoned family in ways that proved her wisdom, generosity with grace and patience.

She was fierce, got to be vicious sometimes and was loved by many. She was my avatar.

I wanted her complete freedom, in part, because I wanted my own but I believe in and supported her fullest self expression. I wanted her to choose everything for herself — who touched her, what to eat, where we walk, when to die…

But I failed on that last wish. When she started showing her age, I didn’t get comfortable with her new dependency.

She seemed to decide to die a couple of times and each time I interrupted what looked like an intense yet gorgeously solitary process. It bothered me that she was dying during my work day.

I was anxious about the length of time she went without food, water, walks, and connecting to me.

I missed her when she slipped into a shivering, feverless stupor. I hated the “walks” (me lifting her to the grass and her collapsed on her side gazing at the sky until I carried her home).

I was disgusted by her illnesses and the effort they required of me.

But I would not let her die. Nope, I nursed her — extending her condition and our exhaustion until I got sick.

She was not a pet but today at the vet I call her that, "I’m here to euthanize my pet." I am justifying my right to end her life.

She was not my property; she is not mine never yet I am “putting her down”. I sound weak and middle class and I am tired, hungry — I’m dehydrated.

Caring for Rosemary for these past months has made the matter of her death acceptable, even necessary to my well-being.

This is a deadly fight for my own survival, I have the power to end it now — she can’t stop it herself and I, am shattered, looking for signs of slight improvements to help me become strong enough to care for her dying.

She’s been faraway for weeks except for a few miraculous moments.

She directed me to a door with a sign that read, "Lord, please help me hang in there." She sat at first and then strained to go in to a stranger’s house we’d never visited.

I dreamt of gossamer white, veils in flight. Paradise, river, earth… I awake to immediate thoughts of her and find her breathing and struggling to die and I spray water into her and put more food and pills in.

She takes water and food only from our hands. She seems like she is trying to be polite. She doesn’t want it but she still remembers to take care of us.

At 12am in rain, she gazed at the mosaic of light reflecting on the asphalt and, after a long while, she splashed into it.

From restless sick to medicated rest,
the body went from warm to cool and then I bathe her as is my honor — whether deservedly or no.

The vet said she was dead 30 minutes ago but I feel her loving this funeral bath and appreciating the warmth of the blanket when it is done.

I feel her in her body and the room until I don’t.

I open the door of this place where animals are euthanized to the wind, put flowers in Rosemary’s body’s mouth, and close her eyes. I close mine.

I sit with the body until it is quiet and cold. Then, vet tech has gathered up the body like I had done — so gently.

There is nothing I want to take with me.

Leaving, I see a hawk playing in the wind and that makes everything okay for me for some reason. Home looks like our place and I feel a new pain thinking of the rug that is her place waiting for me.

I’m feeling so tired.

If I had help, I could have kept her alive.

The sobbing feels like release and, I’m ashamed to admit to myself, a relief.

I can get out of the car but the distance between my car and the front door seems longer since I put my old lady down.

Looking up, I see the great bird surfing wind.