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The house feels lonely now, a little empty. There’s an echo with my footfalls that wasn’t there yesterday. The energy has changed. When I enter the kitchen, there’s a spot in the corner that feels like a void. It used to hold the big, cushioned pad that was our dog’s bed. It used to hold a big part of my heart.
I’ve swept the floors and gathered big piles of her undercoat fur. It’ll be there in one form or another for months—traces of it for years. Her last bandana is tacked to the bookshelf in my office. She liked a bandana. It seems to me that she felt naked without it and happily squirmed into a clean one when the one she was wearing got funky. Her chain collar is hooked over the corner of the mirror in our bedroom. We never attached a leash to it—too choky. We used it to hold her bling, her rabies tags, which accumulated over the years. It also bears the HOMEAGAIN tag with her name and my cell number stamped into it. It’s golden in color and shaped like a bone. She liked the clink of those tags, the little metallic chime that was part of her movement.
I’ve cleaned her bowls and set them aside to give away. There’s an unopened bag of dog food in the garage—and, of course, all her medicines and supplements. There’s even a prescription at the pharmacy for her that I haven’t picked up yet. I’ll ask them to put that back.
Mallie came into our lives almost 13 years ago. Our son Devin and his sweetie, Shae, adopted Mallie when she was an energized ball of puppy fur—and teeth. It was finals week of their junior year. Dev lived in an apartment, and of course, Mallie, just removed from her mother and littermates, howled all night. We accepted responsibility and care for the rest of the semester. Devin and Shae stayed with us that summer, but when the school year began again, we became her unofficial owners.
I sent Devin a picture of Mallie lying on her bed last night—barely able to move, looking unhappy and confused, and probably in considerable pain. I told him we were going to have her put down. “This girl was the best gift you ever gave us,” I wrote. “Made this house a home. Forever grateful.” He sent back what had to be one of the first pictures ever taken of her. In it, she’s lying sprawled on the couch, half on, half off a USC blanket, eyes squinched shut—probably exhausted from too much play. She is fresh and white, her whole twelve-and-a-half-year life stretched ahead of her.
When she was about four months old, she went “wompy” when we were out walking. Our term for going batshit crazy. She did that occasionally—just zigzagging around like a dervish. She landed wrong after springing high into the air and hyperextended her elbow. Fractured. Surgery. Pinned. Casted. Thousands of dollars—the best investment ever. She always limped after that. We knew it would eventually become arthritic. And, of course, it did.
She didn’t do any clever tricks other than “sit” (when she knew there was a treat coming). When she was a pup “fetch” meant, “go get it and run away.” We didn’t care. She was smart in other ways. Never once peed or pooped in the house, even as a pup. I put handles on the back porch doors, and she opened them at will to gain access to the backyard. She was never afraid of thunderstorms and would often point at the back sliding door during a storm so we could let her out. She enjoyed the sounds of storms from inside the screened porch.
Once, when we had a family gathering on the porch, Mallie was sitting on her pillow in the corner. People were laughing, telling stories, and carrying on. There was a space in the circle, about the size of a chair. Mallie pulled her bed into that spot, revolved a couple of times, and plopped down—the circle complete.
I never knew her to growl at anyone—so, not a great watchdog. She was foolish enough to eat stuff she shouldn’t—and not just grass and pinecones. Once, when we were in Arizona, we got a call from the kennel where we were boarding her. She was coughing up blood, and we asked if we wanted her x-rayed. Well, yes, we did. Turns out she ate a roofing nail. It passed okay.
Last year, around Christmas, she tore both of her CCLs (like ACLs on a human). We took her to a vet who x-rayed her and proclaimed that she needed a total hip replacement—he assured us that he could insert one that was state-of-the-art—and other serious surgeries reshaping each of her back legs. Each procedure would take three or four months to heal. She’d be casted, probably have to wear one of those Elizabethan collars, and would have to be carried outside and back in to do her business. In other words, a year of her being miserable. She was nearly 12—the average life expectancy of a Labrador retriever.
We opted to ease her pain with meds and to make her life as comfortable as possible. She limped around the house but adapted pretty well to her new condition. She clicked into our bedroom when she heard us stirring in the morning—or when she wanted or needed to go out. Fewer stairs. All walks on the leash. She started asking us to move her bed into the living room in the evenings and spent our early mornings in the sunroom as we reviewed the news over coffee. She waited under or near the table at meals to catch any fallen bits. She followed Heidi around the house and gave—and received—all the love possible.
We always loved her, but I think this last year together made us even closer. It was a precious gift.
Yesterday, she could barely walk. She was uncomfortable. Our son Colin, her favorite person in all the world, came over to say his goodbyes. She didn’t wag when she got a dose of “double petting.” She had to be talked into eating. She pretty much stopped drinking.
Last night, I slept on the couch—knowing it would be her last night. At about four in the morning, she tried to get up and go to the door. She couldn’t stand. She flopped down, confused that her body wouldn’t respond the way she wanted. I was sure she was in pain. My heart was broken, but we knew the decision was the right one.
We called a vet who performs euthanasia at home. She was calm, sweet, knowledgeable, and comforting. Heidi and I cried and held hands while we cradled Mallie, petted her, gave her treats, soothed her, loved on her. Mallie relaxed, breathed more slowly, snored, breathed shallowly—and then just drifted off.
Our lives won’t be the same. The house will never feel as full. That girl’s joy was contagious, her loyalty unwavering, her friendship and love unconditional. I miss her already. While we’ve had a few dogs in our lives together, Heidi said she never really loved any before. I get it. Not sure if we’ll ever get another dog, but I’m quite sure we’ll never share our lives with a spirit as beautiful as hers.
Sure, I’m sad. I can only remember a few times in my life that have hit harder than this one. But I’m also feeling blessed that my life’s path crossed the path of this beautiful animal.
