rip, pandabear/border collie mix.
We put my girl down today.
My Bonnie. The one who's stuck by me through it all. The last animal left from my childhood (etc).
Meg, my Canadian (long story short: she lived with us for a little over a year during high school), drove down for it. I told her last night at 10pm that we were putting Bonnie down today. She was in her (husband's) car by 11pm, driving down from Peterborough, ON to be with me and Bonnie and to say goodbye. She got here at 3:30am. We talked until about 5.
We both slept downstairs with Bonnie. I think Bonnie knew it was her last night. As soon as I started falling asleep on the couch, she managed to pull herself onto her feet and stagger over so that she could sleep in front of me. When Meg got here, she got a blanket and lay on the floor next to her. My parents woke up at 6am and found us, both with a hand lying on Bonnie's neck or stomach, in the living room with the dog.
We spent the day with her. Took her outside at about 7am. Helped her to stand up, to walk outside, to get to a comfortable place out of the sun. Helped her move to the shade as the sun rose higher. We spent the entire afternoon just sitting outside with her. Took TONS of pictures. When we went up to the convenience store a couple blocks away, we got some Ben & Jerry's for us to share. Phish Food. We gave the leftovers to Bonnie. (at this point, why keep her away from the chocolate ice cream that she so loves?)
My parents got home at about 3:30. My dad had obviously been crying all day. My dad is incredibly stoic. And he still lost it when he walked over to say goodbye to Bonnie. My mom said that she was pretty sure he didn't even cry this much when his grandfather died. As we were getting Bonnie into the car, and the tears were streaming down his face, he turned to Meg and I and somehow choked out, "Whoever said that men don't cry obviously never loved a dog like Bonnie."
My mom, Meg, and I took Bonnie to the appointment. My dad stayed at home to dig the hole to bury her. He said he would just be useless if he went. He'd just barely been able to keep it together that day at work, and he didn't want to lose it in the vet's office. He said goodbye to her in the garage, and quickly walked away. He didn't want to see her leaving.
When we got to the vet's office, Bonnie was less than thrilled. She's always hated the vet. I wished so hard that these vets did house calls for this kind of thing. I would have much rather had Bonnie go in the peace of our backyard, rather than on her blanket on a cold metal table in a vet's office in Falconer.
They weighed her. Since the last time she was there, about a month and a half ago, she'd lost almost 20 pounds. While she was on the table, either before or after or during the euthanasia, she lost control of her bladder. Again. We had to carry her from the car onto the scale, and then from the scale onto the table. She could barely stand, and was very unstable while walking.
The doctor had an emergency elsewhere, so Meg, my mom, and I had about a half an hour to stand there and cry and remember some great memories of Bonnie's life. We tried to keep her a little bit calm. It worked, and she was only shaking a little bit. At least, until Mary, the vet, finally came in. At first, Bonnie was ok, and Mary was just talking to her like normal. Mary asked us if we all wanted to be there. We all nodded emphatically. Of course we did.
When the vet got out the needle, though, Bonnie got really nervous and started crying and whimpering. They shaved a little strip on her leg. She hated it. They cleaned it with alcohol. She buried her face in the crook of my arm.
And then Mary put the needle in. And Bonnie cried.
And that's when I lost it. I don't normally cry. But I bawled like a baby over my girl at the vet's office. The heaving, hiccuping, pathetic sobs. I cradled Bonnie's head in my arms and just sobbed. Hard.
As soon as the vet pushed the last of what was in the syringe into her leg, she totally relaxed. Mary checked her heart, stood back, and Meg and I bent over Bonnie, held hands over her chest, and cried together into her fur.
The vet tech helped us get Bonnie into the car. As soon as we got home, my dad came out to the car, hugged us, and picked up the now very heavy, very stiff body of my baby.
We took her out to the hole my dad had dug at the beginning of the woods in the back of our house, right next to a huge growth of wildflowers. (This might sound morbid, but it was a perfect hole. The perfect depth, width, and he'd even put a board in the bottom.)
He placed her in the bottom, we all cried a little more. And Meg, my dad, and I all took a shovel and each took turns dropping our first shovels full of dirt into the grave.
My dad had somehow gotten the song, "Goodnight My Angel" (Billy Joel) on his phone. He played that for a while as we filled in the grave. (Until it got to be too much for all of us and he had to turn it off.)
My dad had found a large stone, probably 6"x10", and had used his hammer and a chisel to carve Bonnie's name into it while we were gone. After we finished filling in the grave, I got the stone from his workbench and placed it on her grave.
And cried.
(again.)
After dinner, and after Meg left to go back home, I went out back to sit by her grave. I sat in front of it and talked to her and cried for a good 45 minutes.
I'll never have another dog quite like her.
I know it'll stop hurting as much at some point.
But I'm not to that point yet.
And it still fucking hurts like hell.
I know it was the best thing to do for her. I know she'll be up there with Oreo and Tabby and Meg's dogs. And Midge. I know she's happier now.
But I still want her to be here. With me. Fully functional. Able to walk. Not in pain. Not aged. Just the way she used to be.
I just want my baby back.
And that's the one thing I can't have.
God, I'm going to fucking miss her.
I already do.
My Bonnie. The one who's stuck by me through it all. The last animal left from my childhood (etc).
Meg, my Canadian (long story short: she lived with us for a little over a year during high school), drove down for it. I told her last night at 10pm that we were putting Bonnie down today. She was in her (husband's) car by 11pm, driving down from Peterborough, ON to be with me and Bonnie and to say goodbye. She got here at 3:30am. We talked until about 5.
We both slept downstairs with Bonnie. I think Bonnie knew it was her last night. As soon as I started falling asleep on the couch, she managed to pull herself onto her feet and stagger over so that she could sleep in front of me. When Meg got here, she got a blanket and lay on the floor next to her. My parents woke up at 6am and found us, both with a hand lying on Bonnie's neck or stomach, in the living room with the dog.
We spent the day with her. Took her outside at about 7am. Helped her to stand up, to walk outside, to get to a comfortable place out of the sun. Helped her move to the shade as the sun rose higher. We spent the entire afternoon just sitting outside with her. Took TONS of pictures. When we went up to the convenience store a couple blocks away, we got some Ben & Jerry's for us to share. Phish Food. We gave the leftovers to Bonnie. (at this point, why keep her away from the chocolate ice cream that she so loves?)
My parents got home at about 3:30. My dad had obviously been crying all day. My dad is incredibly stoic. And he still lost it when he walked over to say goodbye to Bonnie. My mom said that she was pretty sure he didn't even cry this much when his grandfather died. As we were getting Bonnie into the car, and the tears were streaming down his face, he turned to Meg and I and somehow choked out, "Whoever said that men don't cry obviously never loved a dog like Bonnie."
My mom, Meg, and I took Bonnie to the appointment. My dad stayed at home to dig the hole to bury her. He said he would just be useless if he went. He'd just barely been able to keep it together that day at work, and he didn't want to lose it in the vet's office. He said goodbye to her in the garage, and quickly walked away. He didn't want to see her leaving.
When we got to the vet's office, Bonnie was less than thrilled. She's always hated the vet. I wished so hard that these vets did house calls for this kind of thing. I would have much rather had Bonnie go in the peace of our backyard, rather than on her blanket on a cold metal table in a vet's office in Falconer.
They weighed her. Since the last time she was there, about a month and a half ago, she'd lost almost 20 pounds. While she was on the table, either before or after or during the euthanasia, she lost control of her bladder. Again. We had to carry her from the car onto the scale, and then from the scale onto the table. She could barely stand, and was very unstable while walking.
The doctor had an emergency elsewhere, so Meg, my mom, and I had about a half an hour to stand there and cry and remember some great memories of Bonnie's life. We tried to keep her a little bit calm. It worked, and she was only shaking a little bit. At least, until Mary, the vet, finally came in. At first, Bonnie was ok, and Mary was just talking to her like normal. Mary asked us if we all wanted to be there. We all nodded emphatically. Of course we did.
When the vet got out the needle, though, Bonnie got really nervous and started crying and whimpering. They shaved a little strip on her leg. She hated it. They cleaned it with alcohol. She buried her face in the crook of my arm.
And then Mary put the needle in. And Bonnie cried.
And that's when I lost it. I don't normally cry. But I bawled like a baby over my girl at the vet's office. The heaving, hiccuping, pathetic sobs. I cradled Bonnie's head in my arms and just sobbed. Hard.
As soon as the vet pushed the last of what was in the syringe into her leg, she totally relaxed. Mary checked her heart, stood back, and Meg and I bent over Bonnie, held hands over her chest, and cried together into her fur.
The vet tech helped us get Bonnie into the car. As soon as we got home, my dad came out to the car, hugged us, and picked up the now very heavy, very stiff body of my baby.
We took her out to the hole my dad had dug at the beginning of the woods in the back of our house, right next to a huge growth of wildflowers. (This might sound morbid, but it was a perfect hole. The perfect depth, width, and he'd even put a board in the bottom.)
He placed her in the bottom, we all cried a little more. And Meg, my dad, and I all took a shovel and each took turns dropping our first shovels full of dirt into the grave.
My dad had somehow gotten the song, "Goodnight My Angel" (Billy Joel) on his phone. He played that for a while as we filled in the grave. (Until it got to be too much for all of us and he had to turn it off.)
My dad had found a large stone, probably 6"x10", and had used his hammer and a chisel to carve Bonnie's name into it while we were gone. After we finished filling in the grave, I got the stone from his workbench and placed it on her grave.
And cried.
(again.)
After dinner, and after Meg left to go back home, I went out back to sit by her grave. I sat in front of it and talked to her and cried for a good 45 minutes.
I'll never have another dog quite like her.
I know it'll stop hurting as much at some point.
But I'm not to that point yet.
And it still fucking hurts like hell.
I know it was the best thing to do for her. I know she'll be up there with Oreo and Tabby and Meg's dogs. And Midge. I know she's happier now.
But I still want her to be here. With me. Fully functional. Able to walk. Not in pain. Not aged. Just the way she used to be.
I just want my baby back.
And that's the one thing I can't have.
God, I'm going to fucking miss her.
I already do.