I got up around 5 a.m. and as soon as I had given Snowy all his meds, I carried him out to the porch swing and held him close to my chest for about thirty minutes as together we shared the rising dawn of his last day.
Because of the heavier meds, his whole body didn’t have tremors running through it from the early morning pain he usually experienced. He was alert and happy and sniffing the air with the kind of studied intensity that a learned scholar reserves for his most serious of tomes.
It was thirty minutes that I will never forget–watching the morning arrive as Snowy lay serenely in my arms. It felt as though the whole world was made up of just him and me and the dawn existed for our senses, for our enjoyment alone. Such a gorgeous, heartbreaking start to his final day.
As the morning wore on, Sarah and I decided it would be special to drive to the school one more time with him. She came downstairs wearing her (empty) back pack and we both put on our excited voices saying, “Want to take Sister to school?” the way we have every school morning since time immemorial.
And like every school morning since time immemorial, Snowy flung himself into a frenzy of joy at the sound of our voices and ran circles around Sarah until she picked him up and carried him out to the van.
He settled himself contentedly into his usual spot . . .
. . . and we drove the short distance to the Manteo High School.
When we arrived, Snowy gazed studiously out the window, ready as ever to shoot Doggy Laser Warning Beams at any boys in the vicinity who might happen to cast a stray glance in Sarah’s direction.
But then he finally turned around and said, “Hey, Mom. There are hardly any people here! And Sarah isn’t getting out. What’s going on?”
To further add to his befuddled discomfiture, we also took a quick trip past Sarah’s old middle school where he had faithfully ferried her during eighth grade. Once again, no students. No teachers.
Just Snowy and Sarah, listening to old, precious memories.
On the way home, I told Sarah to put her window down so that Snowy could stick his head out the window. Turns out that this particular Official Doggy Act had been on his Bucket List for quite a while and he had a very large time letting the wind’s fingers ruffle his fur. I could see the doggy smile all the way across the van.
(By the way, his fur actually whipped around quite a bit more when we were out on the main road; I took this picture on our side road going about 5 miles an hour since I was steering and snapping at the same time.)
Snowy continued to spend the morning feasting on sumptuous chunks of watermelon and bits of grilled chicken. He was a happy, spoiled little guy. (We put the board under his dishes so he wouldn’t have to stretch his neck so far down to eat.)
Sarah took him upstairs for their last stint at the computer together. Since we got Snowy when she was just four years old, the two of them have logged a lot of time together.
He then rode the very accommodating elevator back down to the first floor. . .
. . . where mama waited.
He had been pretty energetic and frisky all morning, but when I picked him up to hold him close, he quieted down immediately, and his whole body just collapsed into one large “Ahhhhhhh . . . “
After about twenty minutes, he started stirring a little and we moved into the living room to wait on the vet. Some of his old sassiness came back as he looked happily around the living room at some of his favorite people all gathered in one place.
He smiled and Sarah cried.
She picked him up for another kiss. . .
. . . and another hug.
He finally figured enough kissin’ and cryin’ had been done, and settled his little head into the curve of the chair for a wee snooze.
He rested quietly there until the vet and her nurse arrived and then he jumped up to form his own personal welcoming committee. We were so pleased to see the vet sit down on the floor with Snowy and pet him and play with him for a while. She told us she understood that it is especially hard to put a dog to sleep who seems to be feeling so well at the moment but fully agreed that the respite was temporary and we had definitely reached the end of the treatment road.
The vet explained to us what the process would be: first an injection in his hip to sedate him, followed about five minutes later with the medicine that would stop his heart.
Sarah had decided ahead of time that she didn’t want to be there for that process so we handed Snowy to her one final time to say her good byes. She began to cry, and I hugged her and cried with her before being joined by Steve who came over and put his arms around the three of us–Snowy safe and secure in the center of the circle.
Sarah took a final look back at her beloved pet, friend, and cancer nurse and walked slowly up the stairs to her room, leaving behind a precious part of her childhood.
The vet came back to the couch and gave Snowy the first injection and it was just a matter of seconds before his breathing changed and he went limp in my arms. She said that she and the nurse would go out to the front porch for a few minutes to give us some privacy before the final injection.
And so I sat and held my faithful friend in his special blanket one last time. I thanked him for the years of joy his little life had give us–healing, therapeutic, undiluted, unselfish, unstinting, pure, whole-hearted, tail wagging, doggy joy.
And then I said good-bye.
Oh, my, the tears I just shed again for the loss of that funny, wonderful boy! Yesterday was National Dog Day – all our dogs here and the ones waiting at the Rainbow Bridge were celebrating and I can just see that fluffy, bossy, loving, rascal Snowy among the rowdiest of the group! So glad you have Summer. Snowy made sure of that event.
Mary,
Fluffy, bossy, loving, rascal Snowy . . . that sums him up just right. 🙂 Thanks for crying with us again and remembering him.
Oh my gosh, I think I cried harder this time than when you originally posted it. We just recently went through the same thing with our oldest boy, and it never gets any easier. The end is so hard, but the pain is totally worth all of the loving and laughter we get from our fur babies. God bless you, Snowy.
Gayle,
“The pain is totally worth all of the loving and laughter . . .”
That sums it perfectly.
Oh my goodness….I bawled my way through your post. Our pets are such a big part of our family life. So happy you have Summer now
Wendy,
You’re not the only one who cried; Sarah told me at dinner the other night that she had cried like a baby re-reading that account. Yes, pets are truly a huge part of our lives. Love them!
I saw a movie recently with Blythe Danner in it – I’ll See You in My Dreams. At the beginning, she put her dog to sleep. Reminds me of your story with Snowy. She did it at the vet’s office and her dog was much bigger but she sat my her bed stroking her for quite some time.
Phyllis,
I haven’t heard of that movie but if it’s got a dog in it, I have soft spot for it. Love our furry family members.
I read the whole post. I admit that I have tears in my eyes. I have had two beloved furbabies pass before my eyes. I actually stroked the head of my cat as the vet was putting her to sleep and my dog died in my arms.
Kristi,
You have been blessed to have two special animals; I know they felt your love all the way to the end.
Obviously your BlogHer software didn’t like my comment which was simply “sniff.”
Jan,
Maybe the software prefers verbose comments to one word comments. But in my mind, “sniff” pretty much sums it up!
Chose NOT to re-read about precious Snowy, but I did think about him yesterday knowing that was a sad date for everyone who loved that little fella!
Mrs. Pam,
Thanks for thinking about our furry fella–much loved, much missed.
OK, well that was sad. Yes, indeed. I remember it like it was yesterday, with the ever present box of tissues. ::sigh::
Lesley,
Boxes of tissues and beloved pets seem to go hand in hand. I’m always thankful to remember that tears are an indicator of love.
I confess I only made it through half this post before I was crying too hard to finish. It’s amazing how special our pets are to us. What a privilege to love and care and bond with an animal. We lost a very special pet last February, and although a bird he reminded me of Snowy- mischievous, funny, and an incrediblly strong personality. His name was Finnegan and he was a quaker parrot who I taught to say 40 words. Just the other day I commented to my family that there is an empty shape in my heart the size of a small green bird. I am trying to convince my family we need another parrot, but we already have a lovebird, hamster, 2 gerbils, gecko and the school’s pet chinchilla so our home zoo is sort of full.
Jenna,
I just love the name Finnegan and it sounds like it was a perfect fit for that spunky parrot of yours. I imagine there was endless entertainment with a bird around who could say that many words. Oh my!
Ann,
Yes, those fur family members of ours are precious to hearts, aren’t they?
Tears again as I read this. Our fur family members are such an important part of our lives. Thoughts and prayers with you today.