It’s a lie.
The thing they say about hard times making you more resilient.
It’s not true.
We adopted our dog, Maggie, thirteen years ago.
A ten-week-old puppy with rolls of fat at the top of her legs and a thick, sturdy neck. A Mastiff cross, Labrador, with hair the colour of new copper and a mark on her tail that the kids insisted was the shape of a heart.
The minute we brought her home, I knew she was the one for us.
She was happy. Calm. Gentle. Sensible.
I saw myself in her. They say that, don’t they? That pets are like their humans. It’s true. She’d play with a ball for ten minutes and then was done. A little splurge of social interaction and then back to bed for Maggie.
I homeschooled both my kids for ten years, and we joked that Maggie was the third student. Her basket was next to the brown leather couch which faced the kitchen. She never left my side. Even when she was asleep, she slept with one eye half open. Just in case.
A month before my mum was diagnosed with cancer, Maggie showed signs of illness. She couldn’t hold her bladder. She would leave bits of her food. We took her to the vet and were told that her kidneys were failing.
“Is there anything we can do?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.
The vet made noises about tests and costs and life expectancy. Then he placed his hand over his grey-bearded chin and looked sorry.
We didn’t make a decision there and then. We’d made plans to house-sit a cat in Napier for five weeks and were leaving the next day. We paid for a bag of medication and, the following morning drove five hours across the country.
Maggie stayed at home with Sonny and a list of instructions.
Give her three tablets a day. Keep the doors open at all times. Let her sleep in your room every night (even if she trumps and snores). Give her lots of kisses. See you in 5 weeks x
Off we went to Napier. We would deal with Maggie when we returned.
A week later, I got the call about Mum. She had terminal cancer. My world began to shrink.
We cut the house sit short and went home; Maggie was waiting at the front door to greet me. She licked the inside of my clammy hand and lay beside me on the couch, resting her head on my knee. Not minding that my dripping tears soaked her nose.
Christmas came and went, and, as if by some miracle, Maggie seemed to perk up.
“I think her medication is working!” I said to Brian, grateful for a slither of positivity. “Look at her! She’s fine!”
And she was.
While it’s true that she couldn’t manage walks anymore, she was still there. Looking normal. Waiting for me when I came home from the hospital. Her silky ears perked, ready to listen. Her stocky chest, strong. Ready to take it all from me.
Hold on, Mags. Please. Hold on.
A month after my mum passed, Brian booked us a trip to Thailand. I needed dental work, and Brian needed a break.
“We’ll go to Thailand and get your crown done”, he said. “It’s not until August. By then, you’ll be ready for a change of scene. The rest will do us good.”
Neither of us mentioned Maggie’s declining health.
No. Let’s not talk about that now. If we don’t say the words, it means it doesn’t exist.
It was July. We were due to fly to Thailand in two weeks.
Our plan was set. Maggie would go into kennels. Spend a month in the country. But as the time got closer, we couldn’t ignore the worsening signs. The constant anxiety. Her unquenchable thirst.
Carpets that smelled of blood and disinfectant.
I talked to Brian.
“Let’s cancel the trip,” I said, hoping we had insurance. I didn’t want to go to Thailand. I wanted to stay at home with Maggie and my picture of Mum. I didn’t want a change of scenery. I liked this scenery. This scenery was good.
Brian was gentle but firm. We had the conversation that’d been in the air for eight months. The dreaded words.
“It’s for the best, Liz. It’s time.”
No.
I can’t.
I won’t.
She can wear a nappie. We’ll get her a ramp. Please, Brian. No.
I wasn’t there when Brian and Sonny took Maggie to the vet.
I was gone. Up and out. I spent the day in the corner of a cafe, scrolling through photos. Crying. Torturing myself.
A friend had recommended a YouTube channel. A woman who helps people through grief. A death Doula. One of her videos talked about euthanizing a pet. This is what she said:
“You won’t do what needs to be done because you can’t face the thought of being sad. If your pet is in pain and is dying and suffering, let them go. Give them that gift.”
The house was empty when I returned home.
No toothless yawn plodding to greet me. No scruffy bed. No clickety-clacky nails. No sweaty paws. No faithful, knowing eyes.
The tiles where her wicker basket had lived for thirteen years were spotlessly clean.
She’s on her way to you, Mum. Look after her for me
That night, as we stood on the deck and looked up at the brightest star, I cried. Big tears. Tears for everything. Tears for it all. Tears for the tears. Tears for her. Tears for me.
Tears. Shitty sick-to-death-of-them-tears.
We need to press the reset button, said Brian.
I feigned misunderstanding, but I knew what he meant.
Of course, I knew.
I knew, and so did Maggie.
When it’s time, it’s time.
Goodbye, sweet girl.
Thank you for being my support. My doggy. My crybaby. My silly billy. My couch companion. My puppy. My Maggie. My Mags.
Thank you for choosing me.
You are pain-free and happy now. And I am off to Thailand.
To reset.
Quote:
Until next time, my friend, when I write from Thailand.
Yours, forever true. And hopefully dry.
Liz x
I will love you forever, Mags. Forever.
