Isaiah
Isaiah died around 11 in the morning on July tenth.
On the ninth, the anniversary of Jen's death (coincidentally) my dog's legs just gave out. He fell about 10 times that day, screaming and yelping in pain each time. I blocked off the stairs so he wouldn't follow me down when I went to my room to shower or dress, and he barked with that anxiety that never left him; he wanted, needed, to be near me, always. He followed me everywhere. Always.
He was my protector. It is a long story, but he came into my life when I was weak and broken, when I weighed just 110 pounds, was 22, living in my car, and thought my heart would never heal.
The night of the ninth, I looked at my mom and said, "What will I do if he's still like this tomorrow?"
She said, "Honey, he's very old. He'll still be like this."
And Isaiah was MY first dog. We had family dogs, but he was the first I owned and loved and cared for and brought everywhere and took to the vet and fed and paid for all his meds and supplements as he aged. So I said "Mom, what do I do?"
She said, "There's only one thing to do."
And I went to him, and my mom went with me, and Isaiah was lying by the back door, and I looked in his eyes and said, "Isaiah, is it time now?" He licked my face and then I just held him and burst into sobs. My mom held me. I cried like a baby. I slept on the floor up there, on couch cushions, next to his doggy bed, but he didn't feel close enough to me on the bed, so he moved to the other side of my makeshift bed and wedged himself between me and the brown leather recliner. I talked to him for a long time, tears streaming. I told him that his pain was going away soon. I told him that I knew he was ready, and that I wanted him to know that I was okay, that he taught me to protect myself, that I was worth protecting, that he taught me that YOU KEEP GOING no matter what. I told him not to feel bad, because I would be okay. That I'd miss him forever, but I'd be okay.
He slept, but I didn't, not really. I kept waking and crying. I tried to read and couldn't.
When I walked him that morning, he couldn't squat to go to the bathroom, and I began to cry, realizing that he had lost his dignity, this beautiful, noble, soulful creature who had been my best friend, my ONLY friend, really (the only one to stick by me always) for seven years, ever since I'd adopted him, when he was about five, and abused, and scared, and so in need of love and healing. Isaiah and I healed each other.
My parents, who grew to love him as our family dog after I moved in in 2007, drove us to the humane society. His pain was killing me; I wanted it to just be over, just be over, and I lay with him in the truck, holding him, my head resting on his back. He was so tired. He could barely even give kisses, and God knows Isaiah was a kisser if any dog ever was.
I held his head in my lap while they gave him the injection. He looked into my face as much as he could, although he was nearly blind by this point. I saw the trust there. My mom and dad were there, petting his back and his poor, poor aching legs, which finally gave out completely on the 9th. I held his head and looked into his eyes as they administered the anesthetic. I buried my face in his soft head and kissed him hard five times and then I said "Thank you for being my friend; I love you, I love you, I love you, good boy, good boy."
And then the vet said gently, "His heart's stopped now, so he is gone."
I fell on his body, sobbed like a baby. What do you do? He looked so very peaceful, like he was sleeping, and my Mom rearranged his legs from the awkward, twisted position they were in when he left us. He looked just like he was sleeping, the way he used to, on the front rug, waiting, always always waiting for me to walk in the door. Toward the end he stopped jumping to greet me, his sleep was so deep, and I'd have to go to him and kneel, wake him gently, let him smell me so he knew I was home, and then putz around the kitchen for no reason so he wouldn't feel rushed to follow me downstairs to our "apartment." It was so hard for him to stand.
We came home and I was numb for a bit. And then it hit me, and I went and got his quilt, his stinky smelly dog quilt that I had sewn years ago that had turned into a mistake in color choices. He always felt okay with his quilt around. I wrapped myself in his quilt and threw myself on the floor where he slept every night, and I cried like a baby.
In grief, sometimes, there is just nothing to console you.
I have never grieved like this before. I will admit it. Not even at Jen. Not even at my Nana. I hurt so bad inside. It comes and it goes.
But I have school, and I am working, and getting a lot of exercise, and I have my piano, and a song is coming at my fingertips, in B flat major, a song, I think, about Isaiah.
I keep expecting to hear him clicking around the corner. I can't bring myself to shut the bathroom doors that lead to my bedroom, the doors I always left open for him at night. After I wake from a bad dream, if he's right beside my bed, I say "Isaiah, baby, are you there?" and he would stir and lick my hand until I went back to sleep.
I miss my baby. I miss him so much.
On the ninth, the anniversary of Jen's death (coincidentally) my dog's legs just gave out. He fell about 10 times that day, screaming and yelping in pain each time. I blocked off the stairs so he wouldn't follow me down when I went to my room to shower or dress, and he barked with that anxiety that never left him; he wanted, needed, to be near me, always. He followed me everywhere. Always.
He was my protector. It is a long story, but he came into my life when I was weak and broken, when I weighed just 110 pounds, was 22, living in my car, and thought my heart would never heal.
The night of the ninth, I looked at my mom and said, "What will I do if he's still like this tomorrow?"
She said, "Honey, he's very old. He'll still be like this."
And Isaiah was MY first dog. We had family dogs, but he was the first I owned and loved and cared for and brought everywhere and took to the vet and fed and paid for all his meds and supplements as he aged. So I said "Mom, what do I do?"
She said, "There's only one thing to do."
And I went to him, and my mom went with me, and Isaiah was lying by the back door, and I looked in his eyes and said, "Isaiah, is it time now?" He licked my face and then I just held him and burst into sobs. My mom held me. I cried like a baby. I slept on the floor up there, on couch cushions, next to his doggy bed, but he didn't feel close enough to me on the bed, so he moved to the other side of my makeshift bed and wedged himself between me and the brown leather recliner. I talked to him for a long time, tears streaming. I told him that his pain was going away soon. I told him that I knew he was ready, and that I wanted him to know that I was okay, that he taught me to protect myself, that I was worth protecting, that he taught me that YOU KEEP GOING no matter what. I told him not to feel bad, because I would be okay. That I'd miss him forever, but I'd be okay.
He slept, but I didn't, not really. I kept waking and crying. I tried to read and couldn't.
When I walked him that morning, he couldn't squat to go to the bathroom, and I began to cry, realizing that he had lost his dignity, this beautiful, noble, soulful creature who had been my best friend, my ONLY friend, really (the only one to stick by me always) for seven years, ever since I'd adopted him, when he was about five, and abused, and scared, and so in need of love and healing. Isaiah and I healed each other.
My parents, who grew to love him as our family dog after I moved in in 2007, drove us to the humane society. His pain was killing me; I wanted it to just be over, just be over, and I lay with him in the truck, holding him, my head resting on his back. He was so tired. He could barely even give kisses, and God knows Isaiah was a kisser if any dog ever was.
I held his head in my lap while they gave him the injection. He looked into my face as much as he could, although he was nearly blind by this point. I saw the trust there. My mom and dad were there, petting his back and his poor, poor aching legs, which finally gave out completely on the 9th. I held his head and looked into his eyes as they administered the anesthetic. I buried my face in his soft head and kissed him hard five times and then I said "Thank you for being my friend; I love you, I love you, I love you, good boy, good boy."
And then the vet said gently, "His heart's stopped now, so he is gone."
I fell on his body, sobbed like a baby. What do you do? He looked so very peaceful, like he was sleeping, and my Mom rearranged his legs from the awkward, twisted position they were in when he left us. He looked just like he was sleeping, the way he used to, on the front rug, waiting, always always waiting for me to walk in the door. Toward the end he stopped jumping to greet me, his sleep was so deep, and I'd have to go to him and kneel, wake him gently, let him smell me so he knew I was home, and then putz around the kitchen for no reason so he wouldn't feel rushed to follow me downstairs to our "apartment." It was so hard for him to stand.
We came home and I was numb for a bit. And then it hit me, and I went and got his quilt, his stinky smelly dog quilt that I had sewn years ago that had turned into a mistake in color choices. He always felt okay with his quilt around. I wrapped myself in his quilt and threw myself on the floor where he slept every night, and I cried like a baby.
In grief, sometimes, there is just nothing to console you.
I have never grieved like this before. I will admit it. Not even at Jen. Not even at my Nana. I hurt so bad inside. It comes and it goes.
But I have school, and I am working, and getting a lot of exercise, and I have my piano, and a song is coming at my fingertips, in B flat major, a song, I think, about Isaiah.
I keep expecting to hear him clicking around the corner. I can't bring myself to shut the bathroom doors that lead to my bedroom, the doors I always left open for him at night. After I wake from a bad dream, if he's right beside my bed, I say "Isaiah, baby, are you there?" and he would stir and lick my hand until I went back to sleep.
I miss my baby. I miss him so much.