Today is a rough day for me. Three years ago I had to say goodbye to my dog, Georgia (todays posted picture). Just past fourteen years old, Georgia had gotten to the point where there were just too many fires to put out with her health. Her quality of life was diminishing daily. It was an agonizing decision and yet at the same time, it was a simple one to make. I felt then, as I still do now, that it was the last kindness I could give her. It was the final decision I would make as her caretaker, as her pet parent, and as a human who desperately loved their dog and would have given anything to have her with me for another fifty years or more.
Georgia and I met when she was nine weeks old. At the time I was living in Virginia and traveled to Maryland to get her. I remember our first meeting well. On the way to see her for the first time, her breeder told me how wonderful Georgia was doing with potty training, that she seemed to understand the concept well and how proud she was of her. Unfortunately when we entered the room she was in, Georgia was proudly sitting next to a pile of poo. It was the first of many moments of laughter she and I shared over the next fourteen years.
I’ve often wondered what made Georgia so special to me, why it broke my heart to lose her and why three years later I still feel the echo of her loss. Without a doubt, she was a wonderful, loving dog. She was kind, forgiving, and beautiful. She was also annoyingly stubborn. During the summer, Georgia wasn’t content inside or outside. I’m sure my neighbors wanted to toss her into the river on more than one occasion when she wouldn’t stop barking. She never slept through the night and for fourteen years I got up at least once, normally twice with her to let her out and try and sooth her. In some ways, she was imperfectly perfect.
The last year of her life was difficult. By that time Georgia was on several different medications for her heart. She had cognitive dysfunction and would pace the kitchen at night. For two years there was a light on in the kitchen 24-7. She was deaf, her eyesight was poor and each day she seemed a little more confused than the last. My days revolved around going to work and caring for her. She had certain meds in the morning, lunchtime and at night. I was up multiple times each night with her and often laid in bed unable to sleep as I listened to her listlessly wander the kitchen floor, toenails clacking, baby gates cordoning off the exits from the kitchen and containing her.
Three years ago today, it was finally time to let her go. As a veterinarian, I euthanized her myself. It was difficult and I did it through dripping tears, whispering words she could no longer hear. She was cremated and her box sits on my mantle, along with the two cats (Phoenix and Luna) she lived with. The first night she was gone, I couldn’t bear to turn the kitchen light off. The next night I cried while flipping a switch that hadn’t been touched in more than two years.
I planted a sycamore tree in her memory. There’s a previous blog with its picture. Some might think that an odd choice, but there’s a large, mature sycamore tree in my front yard and in the fall, Georgia would get the leaves stuck to her head, each leaf so large that it covered her face. Each time she came carting one up to the house I’d laugh. Since that time, I purchase a hyacinth to commemerate her passing. Georgia wouldn’t care about them, but I’ve always liked hyacinths and I plant them outside the front door after they’ve bloomed. Give me another ten years and I’ll have a hyacinth wonderland out there.
The passing time has dulled some of my grief, or perhaps put it into perspective. I have another Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. Those of you visiting and reading my blog have seen multiple pictures of Fennik posted. I love Fennik. He’s silly and sweet, and yet I have been unable to bond with him the way I did Georgia and I don’t know why. I’ve often felt guilty about this. Interestingly I find that a lot of my clients feel similarly with their own pets. What is it about that one pet, that one nonhuman companion that digs a hole into our heart, filling it up when they’re with us and leaving it hollow when they’re gone?
Like so many other answers in life, that one eludes me. What I do know is that I cherish my memories of Georgia. This day is hard, but in some ways, that’s the way it should be. As I tell clients all the time, if it’s not difficult to let them go, then we never should have had them in the first place.
MJ May
veterinarian and fiction writer 