My dog has died, and also a part of me.
She came into our lives 16 years ago during a snowstorm in Wisconsin.
I had just come home from work in nearby Madison. It had started snowing earlier in the day, and by the time I got to our isolated farmhouse out in the country, the snow was more than a foot deep. Usually I entered the house via the back door, but something black, huddled in the corner of the front porch, caught my eye in all the snow.
It was a little puppy, shivering and frightened.
How that little puppy made it to my isolated doorstep with more than a foot of snow on the ground, in biting cold, to this day I cannot fathom the answer. Maybe a neighbor dumped the puppy there. Maybe divine forces were involved. All I know is that I picked up the whimpering puppy into my arms and brought Diamond into our lives.
She was named Diamond because of a white diamond shape on her chest, everywhere else glistening black fur. She was like a German shepherd in build, more petite though, but with the same intelligence and disposition. When she perked her ears up, they reminded me of a bat. She quickly became a loved member of our family, and each day she would amaze us with her intelligence, love, strength, and devotion. She was a good dog.
One day we rescued another stray puppy, and Diamond immediately became the puppy’s surrogate mother, shepherding and protecting him, and when the puppy grew up they remained close friends.
On another day, I took Diamond out for a walk and noticed someone was in our yard. Playing golf. So we walked up near the dude and I asked him why he was in my yard, playing golf. Diamond stood alert, ready. She knew the man didn’t belong, and I don’t think she liked him swinging around metal sticks. But she was a good dog, and she remained quiet.
He said that the previous owners of my house had let him hit golf balls into my yard. When I politely told him that the former owners no longer owned the house, and that I did not permit him to play golf in my yard, he got defensive and started to protest. But when I stepped toward him, Diamond tensed on the leash. She was ready to remove this golf terrorist from our yard. He must have realized this too, because he stopped his protest, gathered up his golf equipment, and left.
Diamond loved to run and explore, and would spend hours racing through the woods of our property.
One night Diamond came back to the house with a cut on her nose. Actually it wasn’t just a cut—part of her nose was hanging off her face, blood oozing from under the flap. We rushed her to the vet, and he said he could easily just cut off the flap and stitch up the wound. “No!” my wife protested. “She’s a girl dog. You have to make her nose look perfect.” He looked at my wife for a moment, sighed, then proceeded to carefully stitch her nose back together.
After it healed, you couldn’t even tell her nose had been cut. My wife still reminds the vet of that incident, and calls him “the dog plastic surgeon.”
And years passed by. Diamond was always strong, always vigilant, always loving. As we rescued more dogs and incorporated them into our home, Diamond asserted herself as the leader of the pack, even over larger dogs.
One evening, I’m estimating she was about 12 years old at this point, Diamond was running with the pack. Unfortunately, she took a turn too sharply, too awkwardly, and tore the ligament in her knee. We took her to the vet and he rebuilt her knee, putting in an artificial ligament. But she was not allowed to run with the pack anymore though, since the artificial knee could not withstand those stresses.
So, after that she became a house dog. And yes, you guessed it. She became Queen Protector of the house.
We were fortunate to have lots of woods in which to run and play. One favorite game Diamond loved was Hide and Seek. When she was distracted, sniffing at this or that, I would sneak off and hide somewhere—behind the car, or behind a tree, or even under the bushes. I’d then whistle for her, and her ears would perk up and she’d race around, knowing that she had to find me.
It usually didn’t take long before she ferreted me out, and then she’d roll on her back, wagging her tail, happy. And then we’d play the game again, and again, until it was time for dinner.
One day, she was about 14 years old at this point, she had a lot of trouble finding me. Either her nose wasn’t working as well anymore or maybe it was her eyes. Or both. But she just couldn’t find me. And then, she gave up. She had never given up before. No matter how well I was hidden, she always found me, she always kept trying.
But that day, a threshold seems to have been crossed, and I realized she was getting old. We played a few more times over the next year or so, but it never seemed the same after that.
One evening, about a year later, after we had just come back from her last walk of the night, we were just about to climb the stairs to go inside the house when I realized I needed to get something from out in the yard. So I told Diamond to wait right there. Of course, she did. She was a good dog.
By the time I got back, her back legs had collapsed from under her, so she sat there at the foot of the stairs in the shape of an awkward triangle, still waiting though. Patient. What else could she do but wait for me to lift her up so she was back on her feet? She seemed happy when I did so. She made it up the stairs, but in a hopping manner, pushing off with both hind feet together.
Other oddities in her movements cropped up too, over the next year. Her body was betraying her. Her back legs, especially, became weak, and if she stood still too long they would collapse under her. Her front legs remained strong, and if she was outside, sometimes she could pull herself back up into a standing position. Inside the house though, the floor and carpet were too slick, and I’d have to help her up.
When she was about 16, she began to have trouble turning in one direction, and she could no longer back up if she walked into a corner, which she sometimes did because she was having trouble seeing.
One vet wanted to put her on pain medication, but due to her advanced age, her body could no longer tolerate the medications. And she did not seem in pain. It was more like she was frustrated at having no longer being in full control of her own body.
But despite her body giving up on her, she never gave up on life. She resisted, until her last breath, Death whispering into her ear, “Come now, dear sweet Diamond. Why the rush? Just lie down here and relax. You’ve run enough, don’t you think? You’ve scoured the fields and protected the humans and guarded the houses and splashed into all the ponds. You’ve no more burdens left to you, so relax. Give up.”
She refused to give up. Despite what life was throwing at her, she remained happy and loving.
Over the last month, though her appetite remained healthy, she would only urinate with my help. Her walking became more awkward, her back legs weaker still. But she figured out how to make it all work. When she ate, she would take a bite or two, then walk in a big circle back to the plate for another couple of bites. If she stayed still, her hind legs would fold under her, so she kept moving. I think she knew that Death caught those who sat down and gave up.
When she was younger, when she slept, often her legs would kick out and make running motions there on her pallet, like she was chasing a rabbit. But, eventually, as her health declined, even in her dreams, she no longer ran.
Our walks through the woods and along the road became shorter. I don’t remember exactly what day it was that she could no longer make it to the end of our street and back. If I had known, I would have let her stay there even longer, to take one extra sniff at the bushes or a longer look at the cows in the field.
Some things are only clear in hindsight, so you should make sure to cherish each walk, every day.
In her last days, when Diamond needed something she would whimper, calling for me to come help her. Sometimes she wanted help rolling over, sometimes she wanted me to bring her a drink of water. Sometimes she just wanted petting, some sort of reassurance that I still loved her despite all the care she was needing. She sensed that she was no longer the mother dog ruling the pack, protecting us from harm. Instead, she was back like when she was a puppy. I think she knew that something had changed, that now we were vigilant and protective of her rather than the other way around.
We took her to a specialist Vet. He said that she had a “degenerative disease” common in large old dogs. Compression of the spinal column was causing all the symptoms we were seeing: inability to get up, inability to walk, lack of potty control, and inability to flip in bed. There were only two scenarios: either she would eventually lose all mobility and feeling in the lower half of her body, or the nerves would become pinched so that she would be in chronic pain and she would stop eating. Either way, there was nothing medically they could do to improve the situation. There was no operation nor cure. They could try to find other pain medications that she could tolerate, but her body had already rejected aspirin, meloxican, rimadyl, tramodo, and adequan.
The vet said Diamond has had a long, happy life that any dog would be jealous of. There just wasn’t anything they could do. No miracle cures.
Soon, Diamond was only able to just make it down to the end of the driveway and back.
And then, we were only able to make a loop around the house.
Finally, she made her last walk, had one last meal, took one last look at us, and breathed her last breath. I don’t know if she understood our tears as we held her that one last time, but I like to think that she knows how terribly much she was loved and that she will never be forgotten.
She was a great dog and a cherished member of our family.
[ UPDATE ] Thank you, everyone, for your heartfelt comments and condolences. It’s truly comforting to hear your words. I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone, but knowing that you are out there really helps. Hug your pet. Hug your child. Hug your significant other. Life goes by so quickly, and you just never know. Thank you, all.