Three days ago our dog Dixie passed away. She was twelve years old, or maybe twelve and a half, and she'd been ill. She had been through three surgeries for mast cell tumors and was suffering a gradual decline due to Cushing's Disease, a malfunction of the adrenal glands which causes too much cortisol to be released into the blood. When she was diagnosed with it in 1998 we chose to treat the symptoms rather than put her through more surgery, and we are very glad we did so. She continued to feel and act healthy, though we had a couple of crises along the way. The end, when it came, was quick; most likely a stroke. She died in John's arms on our kitchen floor. The cats were nearby watching. I was not home.
I have been unable to write about it in the diary until now, though I have replied to the many e-mails I received. It was impossible to contain my feelings. I poured out my pain and grief to anyone who wrote, unable to stem the flow of anguish, incapable of pretending to be okay. The last three days have been almost unbearable. I cried so much my eyes swelled nearly shut. I cried at work, throat raw from silently weeping over my keyboard whenever I wasn't on the phone with clients. I wept while waiting for the train, while walking to and from work, and especially when answering my e-mail. I was devastated by grief, unable to believe Dixe was really gone. I stood by the bedroom window upstairs gazing at the back yard, compelled to try to remember how it looked with her in it. Mostly, I felt a terrible, wrenching sense of dislocation.
The worst was at her walk times. For eleven years the rhythm of our lives was based on those three walks a day. Now we feel bereft, at loose ends, not knowing what to do with ourselves, oddly guilt-stricken at being able to order our day as we wish. It's so different now, and I haven't gotten used to the new order of operations. I hate that I have to get used to it.
John copes faster than I do. He hasn't been so completely overwhelmed. He writes to friends about her, plans her burial ceremony, thinks up little essays about her in his head. We talk quietly, trying to find our balance in the aftermath of it all. I'm starting to be able to think about her without losing control. The raw wound is scabbing over. The unacceptable is becoming accepted. My darling dog is gone.
Tomorrow or the next day we'll get her ashes back from the vet. When we do we'll bury her in the back yard that she loved so much and let her rest forever with the green grass, the wind and birdsong, the showers of petals in the spring and the flurries of leaves in the fall. Soon I'll find the shade tree I want and I'll plant it near her as a living memorial. But I won't need it to remember her. I have eleven years of wonderful memories, many years of love and affection and companionship to treasure, stories and jokes about her quirks and habits, photos and a videotape of a walk in the Stanford hills with her. Her life is inextricably wound around ours, and we could no more forget her than we could forget ourselves.
I've written down the things I remember most about her here. Thank you, everyone who wrote. I'm sorry if I burdened you with my grief. Please know that it helped to hear from you and it helped to write back, and I am so grateful for your concern and kindness.
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