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 14th 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
