Michael was in first grade when I summoned the strength to make the right decision and put my cocker spaniel down. Nicki was 17, old, sad. I had known much sooner than I acted, that it was time to let go.
I just couldn’t.
And then one day, I could.
And I did.
I went by myself, told no one but the immediate family.
I thought I handled it well enough when I told Alex and Michael, when I gave them a chance to say goodbye.
I received a note from Michael’s teacher the next day.
Apparently during “pretzels” time when the kids shared the likes and dislikes of their day, Michael said that he hadn’t liked when his mother killed his dog.
We had to put our dog down again.
Technically, this one wasn’t ours. But with only one in the family, we all laid claim to the little guy at one point or another.
I told Michael what was coming, offered the idea of going by Auntie Dawna’s to say goodbye to Logan.
He took a pass.
Logan was a good dog.
As his aunt, I took on an occasional dog sitting shift or two. Last summer, he and I got in quality time on the beach in Maine. During designated doggy hours, I walked/he ran; I threw/he fetched. We played, made friends –mostly the four-legged kind- and took in vistas of the Atlantic surf that force the deep intake of an appreciative breath. Salty sea air –cures all that ails you.
Well, apparently not all.
Logan left us just before this year’s Fourth of July beach party.
Appropriate, since he wasn’t a fan of the fireworks.
We’ve put off fully processing his departure.
But we did much processing beforehand.
Somewhere in the midst of those many conversations, I would offer the observation that we often handle end-of-life decisions for our pets far more humanely than we do for the people in our lives. With our pets, we formulate a plan and take steps of action that assure they leave us without pain and with a form dignity intact.
I don’t like to think about dying. I’m one of those without a plan.
And I should know better.
There isn’t anything worse than watching someone die.
I know why Michael didn’t want to say goodbye to Logan. He’s always hated transitions and saying goodbye is the worst sort.
I’m with him there.
I don’t like that we lose people too soon.
There are always conversations unsaid, hands not held, hugs not given.
We want another year, another week, or just a day. A single moment, even.
When Logan left us, he could still run the beach, fetch a tennis ball. The last memory we’ll all have of him is likely a happy one. I wish I could say the same was always true about the people in our lives.
Most of us know rationally the steps we could take to offer a compassionate ending to those we love. But we hesitate, just a bit –and it’s usually just a bit too long.
Our hearts hold out for the chance of that one more moment, even when our heads know it’s time to let go.