Dear Murph,

I knew it was coming…..I knew it for a long time.  She’s been slowing down with a steady rhythm that always ends at the same place.  Even though she was a spitfire way beyond her years, the last couple of months have been a constant deterioration in her movement, her eating patterns and her interest in anything beyond the small comfort zone of her bedding.  She has been blind, yet her eyes constantly oozed a mucous goo that had to be treated several times a day with special drops.  She was on a regimen of five pills in the morning and five in the evening for her collapsed trachea, her incontinence, her congestive heart failure and her spasmodic coughing.  Last night she coughed so long and I couldn’t get her to take her pill.  I had to shove it down her small throat with my large finger. and it felt as if I was ripping open her esophagus just so I could do something to try and get her to stop gagging and calm down.  It reminded me of my mother’s last days when the doctors told me that I had to approve the insertion of a peg tube down her throat so she could be given her medications.  She was barely conscious and the minute I signed the order I knew it was a mistake.  They shoved a hose down her throat into her stomach and then made an incision where the tube came out and attached some kind of spigot where they could administer her meds.  I can only imagine what she must have gone through, suddenly having a large tube thrust into her stomach, gagging, coughing, not being able to breath….just so the doctors could have another entry into her already emaciated body.  In the end, it was nothing more than practice for some residents - my mom died the next day.  Is this what I was going to do to my dog…a 12 pound mutt, blind and deaf, in an advanced stage of doggy dementia, just so she could stay alive another day?

She would not eat this morning and would not even step off her blankets to relieve herself.  There she lay, in urine and feces, looking out into space - somewhere - maybe nowhere.  Maybe in pain.  Maybe not.

I went to my Nia class and the focus of the class was on the two senses of tightening up and letting go.  In one of our dances, we kept on repeating the movement of gathering something into a tight ball and holding it close and tight to our core, squeezing, clinging, holding on for dear life.  This was immediately followed by a total release of our body, legs and arms spread open wide, releasing our heart, body and soul and releasing whatever it was that we needed to release.  This movement was repeated over and over and all I could think of was holding on to my sick, aging dog, trying to keep her here with me, followed by the release of setting her free, letting her fly to the other side where colors, tastes, sounds, smells and movement were made new again.  Do I hold her for my sake or do I let her go for hers?

When I got home I called the vet.  He said to come right over.  I scooped her up in her fluffy beige towel and put her in the front seat of the car where I kept my hand on her head for the 15 mile drive.  The room was ready.  There was a blue towel on the table, but she would die in my arms.  She was quiet and safe there, wrapped up in her favorite smells and in the arms of her mom.  My vet asked if he could say a prayer - he thanked God for the life of this animal and the joy she had given me and asked that her transition be gentle and calm.  He gave her an injection to calm her down and when she closed her eyes, he inserted the blue liquid and I rocked her, kissed her and stroked her head and back.  Then she was gone.  No more medicine, no more falling down stairs, no more getting knocked over by the other dogs, no more being startled whenever I bent over to pick her up, no more just existing on her doggy blankets.

I was left alone with her as long as I wanted.  I cried and cried, knowing that my life was going to be severely altered by not having this little creature to take care of anymore.  I left her in the room, wrapped up in her blanket, went into the car and had several good screams at this particular part of life on life’s terms.  We will go back on Saturday and pick up her body, where it will be buried with her 3 other friends who have preceded her on their journey.

Drinking isn’t the issue here.  The issue here is continuing to live life with all its ups and downs, without the numbing agents.  This issue here is experience real life pain - pain that we all go through, pain that tears our hearts wide open, pain that we think we will never be able to overcome.  But we do.  And we do it sober.  And it will get better.  And then there will be some more pain and we’ll get through that as well.  The circle of life continues to roll and sometimes we’re on the bottom and sometimes we’re on the top.  And that, my friends, is just what it is.

Murph, thanks for sending Moo-moo into my life, 12 pounds of piss and vinegar, with the body of a miniature piglet and the courage of a lion.  She showed me how to stand up for myself, not take crap from anyone and taught me that it’s the size of your heart that counts.  Take care of her and if there are any moles in heaven, tell ‘em to run for cover!!!

I love you, Murph

Till Next Time -

Your Humble Road Warrior