Robbie’s moments

This is one of those purely personal posts, not to everybody’s taste. If you prefer the political and philosophical, I’ll try to be back later today with something substantive and you can skip this one.

Furrydoc arrived at my house Wednesday afternoon in tears. Told me she’d already completely lost it in front of a rescue client earlier in the day. She truly did love Robbie. He was a “last chance” adoption from her clinic in February 2002 and he had the most winningly faux-macho personality (an “endearing little jackass” as Joel called him in comments yesterday).

This is a vet who tears up over Marley & Me despite having done countless euthanasias. But still, Robbie was somebody special.

We were waiting for her. Robbie had had a wonderful day and an unusual one for his old self. The last year or so he’s been sleeping 22 hours a day. Then a couple days ago he perked up and Wednesday he barely ever even put his head down. We had two walks in perfect sunshine. He ate rice and cottage cheese. He even choose to go outside and lounge on his backyard mat for a change.

He used to love to do that but hasn’t been bothered the last couple months — one of several signs that said he was nearing the end. But Wednesday, he sunned himself and he trotted up and down the porch steps and kept his eye on me everywhere I went. Not with a Crazy-Ava level of intensity. But with alertness and interest.

Most likely I was telegraphing something of my intentions, however much I tried not to. Fortunately, old laid-back Robbie seemed more engaged than alarmed. Solemn at times, but not scared. Of course, he’s inscrutable; I really don’t know.

Furrydoc told me it’s often the case for pets to perk up on their last day.

And I was horrible at hiding the fact that something was different. That little habit of bursting into tears at a moment’s notice is a dead giveaway. Robbie wasn’t the only one who noticed. I think I was the talk of the library staff that morning, too.

Anyhow, Furrydoc cleared her calendar of all late-day appointments and arrived just before 5:00. Robbie got up to greet her, but he didn’t seem very present. He hasn’t had a full set of marbles for some time and I thought he looked pathetic, which helped ease my conscience about doing this.

I coaxed Robbie onto an old quilted bedspread in the middle of the living room floor and sat there feeding him bits of cheese while Furrydoc sat on the sofa, cried, and blew her nose. And between cheese handouts, I cried and blew my nose.

She offered a tranquilizer shot for Robbie. A part of me would rather be with him, fully conscious, until the end. But remembering how Robbie doesn’t like needles, Furrydoc and I agreed a tranquilizer shot was best for him. One stick. Piece of cheese. And a few moments later, Robbie’s legs slid out from under him. He was still conscious and taking more bits of cheese. But finally his head clunked against my knee and not long after, he was out.

Then it was just petting and crying and talking to him until the big IV of euthanasia drugs had emptied itself into his hind leg. He still breathed a few times after the chemical was gone. Big, sharp breaths with spaces between. Then he was still. Furrydoc listened for his heartbeat, moving her stethoscope repeatedly. Blessedly, Robbie was gone.

And at that point, incongrously, Furrydoc and I sat there on the floor and talked politics. Because that’s what we do. She’s more conservative-libertarian than I. But we could agree that Sweet Meteor O’ Death was a far superior candidate than either of the mainstream two. (She must have seen my bumper sticker when she pulled up in the driveway.)

It felt weird, sitting there with my beloved dog’s dead head lolling next to my knee, sharing a rant about Trump and Hillary. But I think we were motivated by relief. And a need to back away, emotionally, from what we’d just done.

Finally, though, I couldn’t stand it any more and said, “Get my dog out of here, please.” And we rolled him up in the bedspread and carried him out to the backseat of her car. He was heavy, still around 50 pounds. And it’s true what they say about “dead weight.” I carried him out as Doc got doors and gates. Then I nearly dropped him onto her car’s hood and from there we both carried him to the backseat. She had lined the seat with black plastic to catch fluids, but Robbie’s worst leak in death had been a little dribble of drool as his face rested on living room floor.

Once he was tucked into the seat, Furrydoc pulled the blanket back and patted his head one last time, and so did I before we covered him again. Then she drove him off to await cremation.

And Ava? You wonder how Ava handled all this?

Well, she was outside while we took care of Robbie, but we had to carry him past her to get to the car, and she seemed upset only at being left in the yard and not being properly adored while we had our hands full.

I went inside after Furrydoc left, washed up, and let Ava into the house.

Ava and Robbie were never buds. I knew she’d be thrilled to be the sole center of canine attentions in the house. But that little narcissistic diva never even noticed anything unusual. She ran in and danced and jumped around the kitchen table. I fed her the remaining three pieces of cheese, which she consumed with half-mad delight. Then she dashed off for her toy bin and started dragging out the squeaky snake … the squirrels in a stump … the Easter bunny …

And she never even sniffed the spot where Robbie died or the place Furrydoc laid what must have been stinky chemicals and rubber tubing. She never went looking for Robbie or seemed puzzled at his absence.

“Who cares? Who cares? I’ve got Claire all to myself and nothing else matters! Here, toss me my leather cow!”

And after 26 straight years of always having at least two dogs (and as many as six), I am now down to one. And she is more than sufficient.

—–

The rest of Wednesday evening I wasn’t sure what I felt. Endless sadness. Some relief. Less guilt than I expected. I felt much more guilt before than after, though as Ron Johnson said in comments the other day, you feel guilty either way: for doing it too early, for waiting too long. But there’s no looking back.

Thursday morning Ava and I took that three-mile woods-walk I mentioned last week. I’d remembered it as quite an uphill slog, but even after not having walked that route for a year, it was pleasant and not tiring. Worked up a good sweat, though, and made it back to the car in exactly 45 minutes — a pace vigorous enough to protect against health baddies and just enough to make me feel I’d done a little — but not too much — work. There was no ocean view at the top this time. Too socked in. Too much tree growth in the past year; the view will soon disappear entirely. But it felt good to really move again after all those slow, truncated walks with Robbie.

Later I wandered over to my neighbor’s J’s for tea and we talked dogs, past and present. After that, I took Ava for a long drive in the country. Aimlessly wandering. We stopped at the big cemetery where I visited J’s husband’s grave on a beautiful hilltop and walked around with Ava on leash. Spotted the memorial for one of my fellow animal rescuers, a lovely rich lady whose privilege couldn’t prevent her from dying in her 50s of a rare cancer. She had the image of a border collie etched into the granite next to her name.

All the while I was trying to process my feelings about Robbie. But nothing would resolve. I was just numb. Peaceful, though. That was good. That is good.

Robbie and I led a wonderful life together. No regrets. Much love on both sides. I am so glad I had him all this time. The loss of him hasn’t yet begun to sink in.

Something as simple as getting out one dog bowl instead of two brings me to tears, yet I’m not sure why I’m crying.