The Empty House

The house feels empty now, though John and Roz and I are still in it, along with Stormy and Lilyrose Serena.  Na’ilah was a big dog, usually stretched out in the middle of the kitchen floor or filling the hallway between the kitchen and the laundry room.  Her large presence absorbed sound waves and family tension; she sent out a calm energy, vibrations of unconditional acceptance.  The little dogs would skitter nervously when humans walked over them, but Na’ilah never blinked or raised her head. 

She’s not in the house now because Roz and I took her to be euthanized.  Bloody lymphatic fluid began dripping from her chin and from the node hanging below her collar this afternoon, staining her white neck and chest.  Actually, we had been worried that she wouldn’t make it through Saturday night.  When I’d taken her and Stormy for their walk on Friday and Saturday, she had walked very slowly.  A few hours after her Saturday walk, she stopped walking, probably because of pain.  Her breathing was very heavy and difficult.  We gave her a painkiller, and at midnight I managed to get her outside to pee, but she couldn’t walk up the three steps to get back in the house.  Desperate to get Na’ilah to her bed, I bent over, slipped my arms under her, and carried her up the steps to the laundry room, where we both collapsed.  At 3 am I came downstairs to confirm she was still breathing, and at 8 am I was relieved to find her alive and no longer in serious pain.  She walked outside to eat her usual big bowl of kibble mixed with half a cup of chunky stew, her canned food.  That meant I could go to church and postpone the decision over whether and when to call the mobile vet to put her down.

Driving home, I thought about the previous Sunday when I had driven her and Stormy to Will Rogers State Historical Park for their weekly hike on Inspiration Loop.  Maybe I could drive them there today and just let Na’ilah walk around on the spacious green lawn, sniffing for squirrels.  I ate lunch and weighed whether to take her for one last excursion; she loves the mountains and wags her tail excitedly, sniffing the air from her window as we near the park.  No, I decided; I’ll just walk her around the neighborhood like yesterday, down 14^th Street to Maple and back. 

As I put on my hiking boots and got the leashes, Na’ilah stood up and walked to the door happily.  Stormy ran circles around us.  But once outside, Na’ilah stopped before we passed even one house.  She lowered her back end to pee and turned back toward home.

“Okay, Na’ilah,” I said, looking at the opposite end of the block. “We’ll go the other way.”  My goal was now just to circle our block itself, no further, but she wouldn’t walk in that direction either.  She turned toward the front door.  An hour later as she lay near the back porch, her swollen glands started leaking all over her front fur.  It was time. 

I started to make calls, first delighting Na’ilah with a rawhide bone, but Dr. Jones had closed at 4 pm, and two mobile vets said they couldn’t come until the next day.  We realized that ASEC, the emergency clinic open 24 hours, would help us.  While we slowly led Na’ilah to the car, Stormy ran and jumped in the back before we got there.  She usually went with us to all Na’ilah’s appointments, keeping her company and worrying until Na’ilah reappeared after her chemo.

“No, Stormy, not this time,” Roz said to her.

“Why not?” I argued. 

“No,” she said firmly to me.  Because Roz is the dog whisperer in our family, I defer to her on these issues. 

John lifted Stormy out of the car after letting her say goodbye; Lilyrose was also put in the back to sniff her big sister, but she had no idea what was going on.  John stayed home with them while Roz and I drove to ASEC one last time. 

Roz began crying as two young women techs put the IV into a vein just above Na’ilah’s right paw. 

“It’s at her wrist, just like with humans,” I commented. 

“They don’t do this to humans!” Roz cried. 

“I know, I just meant—” I began, resting on my knees next to Na’ilah.  “You’re a sweet puppy,” I said, kissing her head and stroking her back.  I couldn’t take my eyes off her beautiful front paws, now become irrelevant.  They were still strong and perfect, symmetrical except for one white toe and nail on her left back paw next to all the brown toes with grey nails.  No lymphoma here, but soon her feet would never move again.

A kind young vet with gold tennis shoes came in and injected the first drug, a relaxer.

“And then your Propofol, just like Michael Jackson,” Roz murmured to Na’ilah.

Soon my tender-hearted daughter was in tears, but I don’t usually cry on these occasions.  All I could think was, “Roz, don’t ever do this to me.”  She’s been smoking for more than twenty years, and my worst nightmare is that I might be at her bedside when lung cancer or some other horror takes her. 

“I’ve done this before,” I explained to her later.  “With Typo and Corky and one of our cats.” 

“With Katy Kat!” she exclaimed.  “It was my birthday, and Dad and I were leaving to go to a Lakers game, about 2005.  “She couldn’t stand up, and we had to leave.  You took her to Dr. Jones.”   Then we reminisced about the beautiful goodbye to Mocha in our home a few years later with all of us present and a mobile vet officiating.

When we got home, Stormy was standing at the screen door waiting.  She sniffed at Na’ilah’s collar and leash, turning and looking for her.  John gave me a big hug. 

Everything about the house feels strange.  Cleo runs freely through the living room with no danger of attack.  I can walk up and down the stairs without needing to replace the gate that separated predator and prey.  I start putting a load of blood-stained bedding into the washing machine and later into the dryer.  For six years I have never turned the dryer on in the evening because it’s next to Na’ilah’s bed; the sharp noises of zippers and metal snaps rolling inside always frightens her, perhaps a reminder of the BBs and gunfire.  But tonight I can turn the dryer on. 

For months, 20% of my attention has been focused on this dog—it’s time to feed her, walk her, give her fresh water, check her butt, give her meds or a treat or a hug.  Best of all, I might bring Cleo down in my arms to let Na’ilah fix her hunter’s stare on the cat and plan her attack.  This evening my mind keeps turning to these caring tasks, only to be stymied.  “This is how widows behave,” I think.  “Like my mother when she no longer had my father to care for.”  A mind completely programmed for certain behaviors now needs to be reset.   

There’s no need to do anything tonight except run loads of laundry, vacuum, mop the floor, sort through the extra-large dog beds and blankets and food bowls to give them away.  I succumb to a frenzy of cleaning. 

Perhaps I have no tears because I’ve been reading too many Holocaust survivor stories.  Or because a well-known Christian feminist, just 37 years old, died Saturday morning after two weeks in the hospital with the flu and a reaction to antibiotics, leaving two toddlers.  Then there’s the news that a pregnant woman, a four-month-old girl, and a twelve-year-old boy were among those killed in Gaza today in renewed Israeli-Palestinian fighting. 

Perhaps tears will come later, but for now I have only the hollow feeling that the dog closest to my heart is gone.  The house is empty, and I will not be picking up any more abandoned dogs by the side of the road.  That was the kind of thing someone in her sixties would do, impulsively, but I am seventy now and it’s not a good time to take on more responsibilities