I’ve lost my best friend.
Last Sunday night, I took my 11-year old rescue puppy Rafe outside for his last pee break of the night. It was close to midnight on a clear and comfortably cold December night. The neighbors on our little cul-de-sac had outdone themselves with blinking holiday lights, inflatable snowmen, and glitzy Vegas-style nativity scenes. Rafe and I walked down the little path toward the lake; he stopped and pooped, and I leaned over to pick it up, baggy at the ready.
Then he plopped onto the grass.
Weird.
By the time I was able to coax him back to the house, he had plopped down several more times, and I knew something was wrong. I woke up my husband and we sat down and watched Rafe. He was panting, but that wasn’t unusual. He’d been on steroids for an autoimmune disorder for months, and we’d become used to the panting, increased thirst, and ravenous appetite that were side effects of the steroids. He’d just passed his senior-dog physical a few days before. We thought about keeping an eye on him overnight and calling the vet in the morning.
Then his panting changed to labored breathing. We grabbed our car keys and credit card and carried Rafe to the car, then hauled ass to the veterinary ER.
They put him on a gurney and took him quickly to the back. Before I had finished filling out my name on the intake form, the veterinarian on duty arrived. Rafe had fluid around his heart, likely caused by a hemangiosarcoma, she said. He would likely die within minutes, she said. Releasing the fluid around his heart would likely kill him; at best, it might give him another 30 minutes of life, she said.
The vet tech hustled us to the comfort room. They brought Rafe to us. I cradled his head in my arms and told him what a good boy he was. My husband thanked him for all the joy he had given us over the years. I watched the life wink out of his eyes. He was gone.
The pandemic of 2020 has taken so much from so many. As I write this post, the CDC is reporting 296,818 deaths in the U.S. since January 2020. In the past seven days (the number of days I have been without Rafe), there have been 1,469,680 new cases of COVID-19 reported. These numbers are expected to rise precipitously in the days and weeks ahead.
These numbers translate into empty seats at holiday tables, waiting by the phone for news about hospitalized relatives and friends, feelings of terror following a sore throat or fever, and the now-common anxiety over wondering when this long nightmare is going to be over.
For me, it’s over.
Grieving Rafe has taken everything I have. All the anxiety and depression I was feeling over all the ways COVID has turned our lives upside down — gone. The anger I felt when seeing people in the grocery store with their masks under their noses? Gone. The stress of being unable to find a job during the pandemic? Gone. The feelings of hope over the arrival of a vaccine? Gone.
I put one foot in front of the other. I take long walks in the woods, retracing the thousands of miles we walked together. I imagine myself letting go of the leash I no longer need, letting him romp and play in the woods and splash in the little streams that flow into the lake. I toss handful after handful of meaty treats for him; no more reason to restrict his intake.
Someday, maybe someday in the not-too-distant future, this grief will loosen its grip. I’ll go a day without an ugly cry. I’ll give the stinkeye to the guy at the gas station without a mask. I’ll have conversations with friends about vaccines and anti-vaxxers; I’ll support President-Elect Biden’s edict that we wear masks for the first 100 days of his presidency. I’ll be mindful to be as kind as possible to others, knowing that while we might not be in the same boat, we’re definitely in the same storm.
Not today, though. today, the pandemic is a million miles away, and all the dog beds in the house are empty.
