On Saying Goodbye…

During my teaching days in Baltimore, I managed to fit more into one day than I can even imagine squeezing into a week at this point. I usually stayed at school until sometime between four and five, and then drove home to my apartment to grab my dog before heading to the dog park and eventually the gym. The drive between my apartment and the park could take anywhere from 10 to 30 minutes depending on traffic, and as soon as we turned onto Boston St., Izzy immediately started whining in anticipation. On a particularly anxious day she actually peed in the passenger seat of my car when we were still five minutes away; that's how much she loved the dog park. On one afternoon when I returned to my apartment, it took me a minute to find my keys and unlock the door and I heard Izzy on the other side, repeatedly whacking her tail against the wall in anticipation of my arrival. When I finally opened the door, she charged me with the force of a wild beast, leaping from the doorway of my apartment directly onto my lap with all four of her feet. Unfortunately my wheelchair, already weighed down by the backpack of school supplies hooked over its handles, immediately flipped over, landing the chair, myself and Izzy upside down on the floor of the hallway in front of my door. Undeterred, Izzy placed one paw on each of my shoulders and licked my entire face until I was crying for mercy (and, embarrassingly, one of my neighbors came out to rescue me).

I'm telling this story right now, because Thursday was Izzy's last day with me. It was a spur of the moment decision made easier when my friend Annette, who just happens to be an end-of-life veterinarian, came over and told me her stomach looked potentially filled with fluid and her heart arrhythmia was more pronounced than usual. She had already firmly rejected regular dog food for more than a week in favor of homemade beef stew (thanks to my mom), baked cod (also thanks to my mom) and over easy eggs (thanks to Mary). Additionally, she was living with lymphoma, hypertension, a heart arrhythmia, hyperparathyroidism and splenic masses since the end of January. With a lump in my throat I knew, rationally, I was prolonging the Inevitable and I elected to avoid any further discomfort to the dog who literally brought joy to my life every single day for the past 14+ years. After relocating to the couch, and putting Izzy's sedated head on my lap, we put her to sleep. Forever.

I'm unclear on where I stand when it comes to the afterlife these days, but I have to believe I will see her again. And I can only hope that when we meet, wherever it is, she will be just as excited as she was when I attempted to wheel through my door 10 years ago.