Honey
It still doesn't feel quite real. We got Honey when I was five years old, and I remember running all the way home from school to meet her. This was the dog I curled up with after nightmares, the dog that dragged me down the street on walks, and the dog that I got in trouble for feeding scraps. She'd been in my life for fifteen years.
God, it hurts to have to go through that and change it all to past tense.
We had though about renaming her early on, from "Honey" to"Houdini" because of all her escapes. She'd run off, wander around, and two hours later she'd be sitting patiently by the door for us to let her in. She dug under the fence, and when we filled that with rocks she chewed through the wood. After we used metal grating, she just waited until someone wasn't paying attention and she'd take off.
She patrolled the yard, and I do mean patrolled. She used the same routine so often that she wore a path in the lawn that hasn't grown grass for fourteen years. You can even see it on Google Earth.
I wasn't allowed to walk her until I was thirteen years old, because she'd drag me down the street. When I was older, though, I took her walking every day I could manage it. She started to equate my coming home with "imminent walk" so much that she ran for the door whenever I stood up. She'd just look at me with those big brown eyes and I'd hook on the leash and off we'd go.
She always took care of us. She'd check on everyone before she settled down to bed, and then she'd look in on us first thing in the morning, clawing at the door if someone had shut it. She'd lay outside the bathroom door waiting for us to come out.
We called her our phoenix. She had escaped death three times. The first was how we got her: the pound. She'd been abused and neglected, and was in the second cage when my mom saw her. My mom had gone in to get a cat. The second time was when I was twelve. Honey had been with us six years, and she'd gotten sick. The vet said that we should consider putting her down then, and she was on heavy medication. But then, we got out second dog, and with a playmate she picked up. Didn't even need the medicine anymore. The third was when I was eighteen, and she suddenly couldn't stand up. We thought that was the end. We took her into the vet, and the vet said that she had developed something in her inner ear that messed up her balance. Honey recovered, the most complete recovery the vet said she'd seen.
I think that's why we held back so long this time. She was seventeen years old, but all of us wanted to think that she'd bounce back again.
I took her for a walk yesterday. Her eyes lit up, and she ran down the stairs like she'd dropped five years. She stared at the door as I fastened her up, and the second it was cracked she was pushing it open and walking out to the street.
We made it three houses down, and that was all she had left in her. I had to carry her back up the hill, and up the stairs.
The vet said that she was ready. She stopped breathing even before 10 milliliters had entered her system. She was old, her kidneys were shutting down, and the vet said that she probably had some form of cancer.
She'd put on a brave face for us. Even this last week, you couldn't have told she was struggling until you watched for a while. The picture above was taken yesterday. She looks like she's ready to run out the door.
After we put her down, I walked along the path we used to take, the long one from when the only thing limiting the length was how much time I wanted to devote. I found myself pausing at her favorite bushes out of habit. I don't think I've ever felt so lonely as on that walk.
I know we did the right thing. She was in so much pain, and it hurt to watch her. But it still hurts.