Originally published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, November 25, 2007.
Her name was Jessie --- Jessica officially, but we only called her that when she crossed the line. She was our dog for 15 years. She was also our teacher. In her living and her dying she graced our lives with love.
She was a beagle-dachshund combination, with just enough retriever so she couldn't meet us at the door without something in her mouth --- a stray sock, a scrap of paper, whatever she could get to in a hurry.
We'd walk in and there she'd be, velvet ears perked, brown eyes wide, back end swinging to and fro like windshield wipers in a rainstorm. It didn't matter how long we'd been gone, an hour or a day; to her it was just so good to have us home again.
We'd gotten her as a pup, from the Atlanta Humane Society, the fulfillment of a promise we'd made to our two boys when we had to move them from Houston to Atlanta in 1991. They were 8 and 10 at the time, the perfect age for a dog, and she was the perfect dog for them --- for all of us. She was lively and loving, quick to accommodate the ups and downs of our hectic lives.
Five years ago, when I found myself living on my own as the result of a separation, Jessie came with me. The boys were in college by then, both at Emory --- Peter studying sociology and art, en route to a career as a Montessori teacher; Oliver studying literature, and preparing for an M.A. in environmental management. There we were, Jessie and me, "two girls learning to live on their own," as a friend put it. And I must say, she was wonderful company --- playful and bright, warm and comforting. Just what the doctor ordered! In fact, a doctor friend of mine once said, only half in jest, that when one of his patients is diagnosed with cancer, the first prescription he writes is for a dog. I can see why.
About six months ago, I began to notice troubling signs of aging in Jessie. Her eyesight began to fade. Her arthritis got worse. The treats that used to make her prance and twirl lay forgotten on the ground. Even when the boys came by and tried to coax her to play, she'd only glance up from her bed, then turn away. One practice that had never failed was for us to gather round the island in the kitchen and clap-clap-clap-clap, while she raced from room to room, skidding round the corners, flipping up the rugs, sending the cats into orbit. Now she couldn't even hear the call, much less join in the game.
Going for her daily walks became an ordeal. She had difficulty getting on her feet, and winced when I tried to help her. I'd get her out the door and after a few steps she'd start to wobble and fall backward onto her bottom, looking bewildered and vaguely embarrassed. The vet increased her pain medication, which helped some, but only for a while.
Weeks went by. I kept her close. Then one early morning, sitting on the floor of my bedroom with her head in my lap, I asked the question into the quiet, and the answer came from inside me clear as a bell: It's time.
I approached the boys, who each took a different position --- one maintaining that it wasn't right to put her down, the other insisting that it wasn't fair not to. I remained on the sidelines, admiring their willingness to struggle until the way became clear. Jessie was not just a dog, she was our dog, and a beloved member of our family at that. We owed it to her to struggle with the question, to stay in indecision for as long as it took to be sure the answer we arrived at was one we could all live with.
"It's not just the quantity of life that counts, but the quality," said Oliver. "I know it's really hard to think of losing her. But look at her --- she can't see, she can't hear, she can barely walk. Is it right to keep her alive just because we don't want to let her go? How do we know she's not in pain? I hate to say it, but I think it's time."
"But what if she's not ready?" replied Peter. "What if we are making this decision for us and not for her . . . because of all the accidents on the rugs, or because we can't stand to see her like this? We've got to be sure we're doing it because it's right for her, not just convenient for us."
While they debated, Jessie's decline started to accelerate. It was almost as if she sensed our dilemma. One morning she simply refused to get up --- not to eat or drink or go for a walk. The message was clear. This dear dog who'd lit up our lives for 15 years, who'd made the good times better and helped us weather the bad, was asking us to let her go.
We called the vet that day to discuss options. She told us we could bring Jessie to her office, or we could have the procedure done at home. At-home euthanasia is more costly, but we felt it would make it easier on Jessie --- and on us. She'd always hated being packed into the car and taken for vet visits, associated in her little mind, I suppose, with being prodded and pricked and sometimes left behind. We wanted her to die in peace, in her own bed, surrounded by familiar sounds and smells, and the touch of people she knew loved her.
The vet arrived the next morning at 11. Jessie had been sedated and was lying in her bed with the three of us around her on the floor. While the vet administered the drugs, we stroked her head and spoke her name and told her how we loved her life with us. Tears fell freely. Sun warmed the room. The air felt soft and strangely alive, as if the angels had come to join our circle of blessing.
Very soon her heart stopped beating. After a while, the vet assured us Jessie was gone. She packed up her bags and left. We lingered a few more minutes in the stillness, then the boys rose to their knees, gently lifted Jessie's body onto a cotton blanket, and wrapped her for burial with the tenderness of a father swaddling his newborn. We took her to a wooded area where a small grave had been dug, eased her gently into the ground, sprinkled water and flower petals over her body, and said a short prayer. It was a prayer of gratitude for life's gifts, and the last line rang like bells: "In all that they do, they give life!" That was our Jessie all right.
Afterward we came home and ate spaghetti with homemade meat sauce and looked at pictures and told stories of her antics, and remembered her faithful love. It was a sad day, but for all the memories rushing back, a good day. One of the best our family ever had.
Her name was Jessie --- Jessica officially, but we only called her that when she crossed the line. She was our dog for 15 years. She was also our teacher. In her living and her dying she graced our lives with love.
She was a beagle-dachshund combination, with just enough retriever so she couldn't meet us at the door without something in her mouth --- a stray sock, a scrap of paper, whatever she could get to in a hurry.
We'd walk in and there she'd be, velvet ears perked, brown eyes wide, back end swinging to and fro like windshield wipers in a rainstorm. It didn't matter how long we'd been gone, an hour or a day; to her it was just so good to have us home again.
We'd gotten her as a pup, from the Atlanta Humane Society, the fulfillment of a promise we'd made to our two boys when we had to move them from Houston to Atlanta in 1991. They were 8 and 10 at the time, the perfect age for a dog, and she was the perfect dog for them --- for all of us. She was lively and loving, quick to accommodate the ups and downs of our hectic lives.
Five years ago, when I found myself living on my own as the result of a separation, Jessie came with me. The boys were in college by then, both at Emory --- Peter studying sociology and art, en route to a career as a Montessori teacher; Oliver studying literature, and preparing for an M.A. in environmental management. There we were, Jessie and me, "two girls learning to live on their own," as a friend put it. And I must say, she was wonderful company --- playful and bright, warm and comforting. Just what the doctor ordered! In fact, a doctor friend of mine once said, only half in jest, that when one of his patients is diagnosed with cancer, the first prescription he writes is for a dog. I can see why.
About six months ago, I began to notice troubling signs of aging in Jessie. Her eyesight began to fade. Her arthritis got worse. The treats that used to make her prance and twirl lay forgotten on the ground. Even when the boys came by and tried to coax her to play, she'd only glance up from her bed, then turn away. One practice that had never failed was for us to gather round the island in the kitchen and clap-clap-clap-clap, while she raced from room to room, skidding round the corners, flipping up the rugs, sending the cats into orbit. Now she couldn't even hear the call, much less join in the game.
Going for her daily walks became an ordeal. She had difficulty getting on her feet, and winced when I tried to help her. I'd get her out the door and after a few steps she'd start to wobble and fall backward onto her bottom, looking bewildered and vaguely embarrassed. The vet increased her pain medication, which helped some, but only for a while.
Weeks went by. I kept her close. Then one early morning, sitting on the floor of my bedroom with her head in my lap, I asked the question into the quiet, and the answer came from inside me clear as a bell: It's time.
I approached the boys, who each took a different position --- one maintaining that it wasn't right to put her down, the other insisting that it wasn't fair not to. I remained on the sidelines, admiring their willingness to struggle until the way became clear. Jessie was not just a dog, she was our dog, and a beloved member of our family at that. We owed it to her to struggle with the question, to stay in indecision for as long as it took to be sure the answer we arrived at was one we could all live with.
"It's not just the quantity of life that counts, but the quality," said Oliver. "I know it's really hard to think of losing her. But look at her --- she can't see, she can't hear, she can barely walk. Is it right to keep her alive just because we don't want to let her go? How do we know she's not in pain? I hate to say it, but I think it's time."
"But what if she's not ready?" replied Peter. "What if we are making this decision for us and not for her . . . because of all the accidents on the rugs, or because we can't stand to see her like this? We've got to be sure we're doing it because it's right for her, not just convenient for us."
While they debated, Jessie's decline started to accelerate. It was almost as if she sensed our dilemma. One morning she simply refused to get up --- not to eat or drink or go for a walk. The message was clear. This dear dog who'd lit up our lives for 15 years, who'd made the good times better and helped us weather the bad, was asking us to let her go.
We called the vet that day to discuss options. She told us we could bring Jessie to her office, or we could have the procedure done at home. At-home euthanasia is more costly, but we felt it would make it easier on Jessie --- and on us. She'd always hated being packed into the car and taken for vet visits, associated in her little mind, I suppose, with being prodded and pricked and sometimes left behind. We wanted her to die in peace, in her own bed, surrounded by familiar sounds and smells, and the touch of people she knew loved her.
The vet arrived the next morning at 11. Jessie had been sedated and was lying in her bed with the three of us around her on the floor. While the vet administered the drugs, we stroked her head and spoke her name and told her how we loved her life with us. Tears fell freely. Sun warmed the room. The air felt soft and strangely alive, as if the angels had come to join our circle of blessing.
Very soon her heart stopped beating. After a while, the vet assured us Jessie was gone. She packed up her bags and left. We lingered a few more minutes in the stillness, then the boys rose to their knees, gently lifted Jessie's body onto a cotton blanket, and wrapped her for burial with the tenderness of a father swaddling his newborn. We took her to a wooded area where a small grave had been dug, eased her gently into the ground, sprinkled water and flower petals over her body, and said a short prayer. It was a prayer of gratitude for life's gifts, and the last line rang like bells: "In all that they do, they give life!" That was our Jessie all right.
Afterward we came home and ate spaghetti with homemade meat sauce and looked at pictures and told stories of her antics, and remembered her faithful love. It was a sad day, but for all the memories rushing back, a good day. One of the best our family ever had.