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We were on holidays. We got a phone call the day before we came home. Our beautiful big dog had been poisoned, most likely deliberately. We would not see her alive again. It was a long drive home.
Her name was Lola. I’ve written about her before. She has taught me a lot. She was only two and a half years old. We’d had her since she was a pup. She was one of the most loving creatures you could meet. A massive big sooky dog.
Then she was gone! Too soon.
It all ended in a heartbeat, and we weren’t even home to try and save her, comfort her, or do anything for her. Our beautiful big American staffy cross, was dead.
The kids cried, my wife cried, I cried, for days. Our hearts were broken. We went and saw her body so that we could say our last goodbyes. What a surreal experience, seeing her there, looking like she was asleep, ready to jump up and lick us all over.
Was it weird that we cuddled and spoke to a dead dog? Probably. Nevertheless, that’s what we did. She still felt real. We weren’t ready to let go, but we had no choice.
There was a part of me that tried to reason, “it’s just a dog”. But the larger part of me knew that we had lost a special creature. One that loved us each individually in her own special way, and one who also received our love and affection.
I think one of the most difficult things for me was, I would never again be able to express my appreciation to her in a way she could receive.
To say that her death unified us, sounds a little morbid. But the day my dog died, something changed in me. Death, even that of an animal, has a way of waking us up to the reality and finality of life as we know and understand it.
Maybe ‘dog people’ understand more than most, what it feels like to lose a beloved 4 legged friend who’s been with you for a while.
I’ve never lost a child, sibling, spouse or close family member. Death has spared me that experience, and I can only imagine that it’s a 100 times worse. However, maybe some of the feelings of loss and grief are similar.
There are the usual culprits we tend to trot out when someone dies. “Love others whilst you can”. “Don’t waste time”. “Tell people how much they mean to you whilst they are still alive”.
But as important as those things are, they are not what I want to focus on here. They are not what her death has taught me the most, or the theme that her death has represented the strongest to me.
Whether you believe people (and animals) come to this life for a reason or with a purpose, for a specific mission, I don’t know. But her life certainly did seem unique and purposeful. She was like the 8th person of our family. She even sat on chairs the same way we did. She had a sound that she used to make every morning and when someone got home. We called it “woo woo”, because that’s what it sounded like. It was her own way of greeting us. I’m convinced she thought she was human.
It’s difficult to put into words, but her death to me represented a closing chapter in our lives. Whether I really wanted it to close is irrelevant. She was here for a particular time and purpose. Her two and a half years with us contributed to who we are today as a family and to me as a human.
Lola arrived when we were in a very different place. My wife had chronic fatigue and was confined to her bed or the lounge room a lot of the time.
To say that our dog nursed my wife back to health, might be putting it too strongly, but she did sit by my wife’s side day after day, through a very difficult illness, for 2 years. She was also known as ‘healing dog’ for that reason. I don’t know that my wife’s health would be where it is today without that dog by her side.
Whenever one of the kids was sick, she would sit with them until they felt better. She seemed to know when something was up. She greeted each and everyone of us every day, sat at the window until we all were home. She was a person in a dog’s body.
Her death represented a change in the story.
No longer would we be greeted by her big floppy ears, long pink tongue, goofy smile and wagging tale. No longer will she sit by our side when one of us is not feeling well. No longer will she chase her favourite ball like her life depended on it. No longer will she be walking by our side, rolling on her back to have her underbelly scratched, sleeping on our beds, or woofing her way through life with us.
We knew as soon as she was gone, that life wouldn’t be quite the same without her. But with that, I believe has come a changing of the guard. A closing of an old chapter from an old story, and the opening of a new chapter with a new story.
Her death has brought a deeper bonding between my wife and I that maybe would not have been possible any other way. Even her death has served a purpose, as she brought us together in a way that only grief can.
Do we miss her? Absolutely. Do we wish she didn’t die? Absolutely. Do we wish she was still sitting on her bean bag whilst we all watched our favourite tv show? Absolutely. But I am also thankful for the lessons her death has taught and is teaching me.
Our lives are made up of chapters. Some short, some long. Some stories end whilst others begin. Lola’s life (and death), while tragic, has been a healing one.
We see life a little differently these days and I don’t want to lose the impact her passing has had on me. She will always be remembered. She deposited something special into each of our hearts. I hope that we can do the same, as she has shown us how.
The day my dog died, was the day something in me came alive. My heart broke, but through that crack, a little light shined in. I’m a little gentler, a little kinder, a little more open, because of this ‘near-death’ experience.
Her ashes come home next week, and no doubt there will be more sadness, but she will be with us once again, not that she ever really left us.
In the words of John Kim. “Love is infinite and we are all connected. Each connection is unique and different. These connections are what make us, break us, and make us again. That’s what life is ultimately about – the spectrum of our connections and how that changes us.”
So with a new year comes a new chapter.
Thank you, girl.
You are still doing your healing.
RIP my beautiful friend.
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Photo provided by the author.