It’s been 10 whole days since Cubbie left this world. Sometimes it feels like 10 whole seconds. Other times it feels like 10 whole years. I’m not sure I want it to feel like either.
Grief is weird. Sometimes it crushes you. Sometimes it numbs you. I knew with Cubbie it would crush me. I’ve logged far too many hours with this wide-eyed rotund creature to not feel heartbroken by his death. I was as they say, obsessed.
I’d have it no other way. He was my best friend on four legs, my office manager, my confidante, my softest spot before Henry and my most loyal companion before Joe.
In the end, he loved Joe as much as he loved me and I will forever remember my husband kissing his warm, still face in those heavy moments after he was euthanized. I will forever remember Joe’s grief, because there was no other person on the face of this planet who loved Cub as much as I loved Cub. The first half of Cub’s life was spent on my lap. The second half was spent on Joe’s.
Our sidekick is gone, robbed of time. In December he would have turned nine – 63 in dog years.
Sometimes I’m so bummed about this I walk around the house clutching his blanket and apologizing to his roly poly pug ghost for the agony he endured over the last few months. I tell him I’m sorry I let it go on so long. I tell him I’m sorry I ended it so soon. I tell him I’m sorry it had to happen to him. I assure him that he was the dog of my life, that no matter what pooch comes after him, he will always be the one to which every other dog is compared. And I don’t care if this sounds wrong. Cubbie earned that right by being first and awesome.
Sometimes I still smell him, feel him and hear him. I call for him then remember he’s gone. I walk through the front door then wonder where he’s hiding. I convince Henry to come in from outside because Cubbie wants to see him, then I realize I’ve just turned our dead dog into toddler bait – mistakenly of course, because this was something I used to do when he was alive.
I wake up and expect to see him taking up half the bed, snoring, at ease, alive.
I thought I’d feel relief. When you spend so many nights kneeling beside an unconscious dog, rubbing his eyes until his seizures end, wiping foam away from his mouth, carrying him outside so he can pee, steadying him so he can poop, scrubbing the kitchen floor when he can’t hold it and bathing him because he fell in it, you’d expect to feel some sort of solace when it’s over.
I didn’t feel solace. I only felt sadness.
When something you love suffers, you would think letting it go would come easy. It didn’t come easy. I needed a sign. I needed permission. From whom, I don’t know. As strong as I think I am, as wrenching as it was to see Cub slip away, it seemed almost unbearable to be the one to end it.
Joe told me it was my choice. I would have to make peace with it, pull the trigger, then make peace with it all over again. No matter how humane the decision seemed to other people, to me it just felt cruel. Love him madly, then help him die.
I wanted more time. I wanted to turn back time. I wanted to re-experience specific moments in his life with greater awareness and appreciation. I wanted to save him. I wanted to keep him forever.
And then I got my sign.
It was a Thursday. Henry was at Joe’s parent’s house for the day. I was at home alone with Cub, who by 3 o’clock in the afternoon had been asleep for 17 hours straight in my bed. Despite my reluctance to wake him (waking him would often provoke seizures), I lifted him from the bed and gingerly set him on his feet. His blind eyes met mine.
“I’m here Cub. You’re OK.”
He let out one long raspy breath and suddenly I felt guilty for waking him. He needed his meds, especially his anti-seizure meds. I folded the pills into a lump of mashed potatoes then I coaxed him into going on a walk.
In the days prior, Cub could only walk in tight circles – another telltale sign of a brain tumor. Nonetheless, I thought if I could get him on a short leash and steer him straight we might make it around one block.
My efforts paid off. Sort of. He labored down the driveway, turned right and surprised me by not breaking his ponderous stride by spinning in circles. This improvement, albeit slight, seemed monumental.
We were plodding along slowly when out of nowhere we were passed by a little girl and her mother walking hand-in-hand up my street.
The girl looked about 10 years old. She had freckles across her nose and rusty red hair the color of my mother’s. She stopped as soon as she spotted Cub, her face flushing as she smiled. She immediately left her mother’s side to approach him.
“Can I pet your dog?” She asked.
“Of course,” I said. “He’d love that.”
She crouched to pet Cub, who wanted nothing more than to lay in the shade where we had stopped. Within seconds he was stretched out on his belly, his eyes closed and his mouth open as if to say, “Ah, that’s the spot, kid.”
He looked so peaceful in the afternoon light, pleased to be basking in a child’s affection. He looked as he always looked to me before he got sick: happy.
Under the tint of my sunglasses, I started to cry.
“He’s sooo cute,” she said. “He’s sooo nice.”
She sat down beside him and turned over his tags, landing on the red heart I gave him as a puppy.
“I like his heart,” she said.
“I like his heart too,” I replied.
Her mother was getting impatient.
“Grace,” she said. “We’ve gotta get home.”
Grace protested. She was in no hurry to get home. She turned over his second tag – a silver square I ordered off Etsy a few years ago.
“His name is Cubbie,” she said, presumably, to her mother.
Under the tint of my sunglasses, tears fell to the pavement like raindrops.
“Grace,” said her mother. “Let’s go.”
Again Grace protested.
“But I want to stay,” she said. “I don’t want to leave Cubbie.”
She rose from the sidewalk, bending to pet Cub once more. She thanked me for letting her pet him. I thanked her for taking the time. I told her she had no idea how much he enjoyed the gesture; how much I enjoyed the gesture. Then she quietly said goodbye and walked away.
I knelt beside my dog for another 10 minutes, watching Grace turn a corner and disappear. I wanted to sit there and pet him forever. I wanted to hold my hand up and stop time the way Superman stops speeding trains, but then I realized the time I wanted to freeze had come and gone. Cubbie was dying and like Grace, I didn’t want to leave him.
I had gotten my sign.
I hoisted Cub onto his fours and led him down a street we’d walked 100 times before. I told him I loved him. I told him he deserved an eternity of peace and kindness. I told him I would never leave him. Then we turned the corner and walked once more side by side in the warm afternoon light.
<3
So sorry again for your loss. I read this in the service department at the Honda dealership. Bad idea but no one seemed to notice the tears.
Someone must be cutting onions nearby – I swear.
I can remember the SPECIFIC conversation that Mama Deb had with me, when I had to make the decision to put down Jeffrey, the cat I had for 16 years. It was a month before I was to turn 18, and although I was about to become an adult, it was a decision that I wanted someone to make for me. It took me a few days to finally decide, but he was suffering too badly to keep him alive, for my own selfish desires. I still stop and say hello to his headstone when I am at my parents, and it’s been 8 years.
Cubbie is at peace now. A lot of people talk about the “Rainbow Bridge”, but I like to picture all of my loved ones and pets, somewhere warm – a perfect summer day, where the sunshine isn’t too hot. Playing in a nice cool green field. That’s where Cubbie is. I hope he isn’t chasing Jeffrey too badly! Jeffrey never was fond of dogs!
I love you Heidi. This is a beautiful writing, as always! Cubbie is so lucky to have had such a wonderful mama (and dad!) in his life!!
xoxo
Love you
Whew! I am now bawling like a baby, staring at the little dog beneath my feet who I’ve almost lost twice now. I am so sorry that you had to make the most difficult decision ever. These little fur balls really do become a part of us. I hope that you will soon only remember the good times you had with him.
So happy our timing worked out that I got to take a walk with Cub too. I’m happy he’s not suffering anymore. But I’m so sad for you. It’s hard. I know.
xoxo
I am so sorry, Heidi.
I lost my beagle a few years ago. That, too, was a crushing kind of grief but it gets better. I promise.
Thinking of you.
Beautiful.
You are such a fabulous writer!! You have to know Cubbie is in a happier place! I too am obsessed with my dog and I can’t imagine life without her!!
Carrie – I love your picture of the “after here” – a cool green field with just the right amount of sun. Thank you for the image.
And thanks to the rest of you guys for making a sad story a little easier to revisit. Approving your comments forced me to call up this post, which was a bitch to write. I’m glad I got it out when I did because now it’s time to move on to lighter and brighter fare.
As always, thanks for reading. I wrote this hoping it might one day help a pet owner in a situation such as mine cope with the heaviness of letting go. I know I combed the internet looking for stories that might give me clarity as I struggled with Cubbie’s decline. I didn’t find what I was looking for, so I decided to write my own.
I’ve just come across your “Lance” tonight. And now I sit here crying; crying like a child that’s just had her favorite toy taken away forever.
I’m crying for your loss, for Cubbie’s illness. And (selfishly) for me and my Sophie.
My Sophie had her first (as far as I know) seizure today. We’ve been trying to figure out why she scratches and chews ALL THE TIME, reverse sneezing, almost constant ear infections…..
The internet searches led me here.
Thank you for sharing your story….Cubbie’s story.
I can only imagine how many you may have helped.
-K
Kami,
I’m so glad you left a comment, although I’m sorry I made you cry – although what else can I expect? This one is a tearjerker. Personally, I can’t even read the story anymore. (That’s how badly I still miss Cubbie!.)
When I wrote my pug posts, I did so to help cope with a long sad farewell, but also to send a story into the blogosphere that would resonate with other dog lovers for years to come.
I can see now that I accomplished my mission as you’re not the only person to stumble across my stories and leave a comment long after Cubbie’s death. I’ve actually returned many emails from readers who’ve written with questions regarding seizures, phenobarb and other complications, specifically in the pug breed.
My knowledge in this department is limited to my experience with Cubbie. Not all dogs suffering from seizures have brain tumors – as was likely the case with Cubbie. I know many dogs can live for years on the right cocktail of anti-seizure meds. Seizures aren’t always a precursor to the worst case scenario, so please don’t let my story give you undue anxiety. There’s really only one concrete way to detect a brain tumor: an MRI scan. Veterinary MRIs are insanely expensive and in the end, little to nothing can be done to treat the tumor, so you really don’t accomplish much by forking over thousands of dollars for the test. In Cubbie’s case, it became quite apparent to both my regular vet and two specialists (including a dog neurologist) that his symptoms were indicative of a tumor: blindness, listing to one side, walking in circles, worsening seizures, incontinence, etc.
Choosing to end his life was quite possibly the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make. I simply could not stomach that kind of suffering. The weight of this responsibility was crippling and a harsh reminder of the reality of pet ownership.
Cubbie was the dog of my life. I think about him every day. I miss his little face and his little chubby body. I miss his grunts and his happy, mellow spirit. Knowing now how it would end, would I choose to get him again at age 22? Of course I would. In a heartbeat.