The Goodest Boy That Ever Was

It's been 17 days and my immediate, desperate grief has lessened enough that I can talk about it without my eyes blurring over. This might be long, because our relationship was, and because there was a lot of love and adventure in that little 25-pound body.

We met in April of 2005. He was seven weeks old. Tiny. Snuggly. Bug-eyed. We spent his first weekend with us at the Oregon coast where he was immediately spoiled. He didn't want to sleep alone in his crate. He wanted to sleep next to me under the bed covers. I let him so his tiny yelping wouldn't bother our neighbors in the hotel rooms next door. He never slept anywhere else. The men in my life quickly adapted.

He followed me everywhere. It was instant love for both of us. He curled up on my feet while I washed dishes. Sat in my lap wherever I sat. Begged to be carried when the walk was too long and slept on my shoulder.

He wasn't named for a couple of weeks. It felt like such a responsibility, naming a personality. He was Bugsy for a few days, but that wasn't quite right and I finally settled on Rembrandt. Remy. AKA Rembo, Duck-pig-frog-dog.

When we added Ruby to the family, he was the best big brother. He took his toys to her and laid them in front of her. He sat quietly in his jealousy as she shoved hers at us, insisting on being the center of attention. He took the back seat without complaint, gratefully accepting what attention was left over for him. When they first curled up together in front of the fireplace, my heart burst with love for them both.

I had two shadows. Yin and Yang. Where she was temperamental and jealous, he was calm and accepting. Where she hated anything else on four legs, he was the one I could trust. He could go anywhere. He humped, but never harmed.

The adventures we had! He ran along the coast, digging and rolling in loose, warm sand. He rolled in a dead fish in Leavenworth while traveling with my parents. We went on countless walks up the butte and along the river trail, checking pee-mail and leaving return messages. He had a girlfriend, a white boxer as goofy as him. He walked in the 4th of July Pet Parade, rolled in the grass during Sunday concerts in the summer. He was born to captain a boat and floated gently down the river on lazy weekends.He won a pair of goggles at the Puppy Poker day and was a hit at every Halloween event he attended. He was a spider, a shark, a rock star...

He was my rock. He was the love of my life. I lost other loves, one that hurt more than I could imagine living through. But he was always there. Always my constant. His banal routine of eating, peeing, pooping, eating, pooping kept me moving on days I pulled myself through molasses. He never cared how red or swollen my eyes were or how long it had been since I showered. He didn't judge my depression, he simply sat next to me quietly, rubbing his nose into my hand to remind me that he loved me. Always.

I say he was the goodest dog because he wasn't the best. He was neurotic. He hated hugs, they suffocated him. It wasn't until the last year that he would allow me to wrap my arms around him. In his old age, he was a real asshole. He'd pee right on the carpet, looking me defiantly and directly in the eyes. He opened the garbage can in the bathroom to help himself to tasty morsels and fought me for them. He pooped q-tips regularly. He slept right on my shins and my feet and dared to act rejected when I tried to kick him off. I couldn't suffocate him, but he was okay with cutting off my circulation.

When his lump first showed up, I dismissed it as the same kind of fatty nothing he had a few years back. When it grew, and he started losing weight, we went to the vet. It was the first of many over the last few months. He was x-rayed and ultra-sounded and finally diagnosed with Cushing's, not cancer. Because he was 12, I didn't want to put  him through unnecessary surgery so I waited. While I waited, Stanley Dwight grew. And grew. I waited until after vacation so my poor petsitter wouldn't have to deal with his aftercare. I didn't expect that it would be a near emergency when I got back.

He made it through that surgery. He wore the Cone of Shame, which we renamed the Cone of Sadness because it depressed him greatly to have to sleep on the floor with his messy butt rather than the cozy bed where he could crush my shins. There was a small setback, but then he was healing beautifully. He had shiny, new pink skin and his hair was coming back. He seemed to be putting on weight. Our vet was so impressed she released us from weekly check-in visits.

And then, not even a week later, Stanley Dwight was back. With a fucking vengeance. When we talked to Dr. Fox, the conversation turned to chemo and Choices. I went home, pulled my boy on the couch with me, and curled into a ball. The next night, I tried draining the growing, liquid-filled lump. He didn't cry, because he was the Goodest Boy, but he was clearly uncomfortable. I hated myself for doing what felt like torture to him and making him so miserable. I couldn't let that be our relationship. That night he paced the floor. We didn't sleep. He was constantly jumping off the bed to drink water and I had to stay awake to help him back up each time. The next morning he was the saddest I'd ever seen him. He was telling me that it was Time.

I went that afternoon to get him pain meds. I changed his check-in appointment the following Monday to the worst kind of appointment. I didn't just cry in the car. I wailed. It was the beginning of the deepest grief that I always knew would come but could never be ready for.

I canceled everything I had scheduled for the weekend. I spent every minute I could with him. I second-guessed, thinking it was Too Soon. And then his back leg slipped out from under him on Saturday. On Sunday, he showed obvious internal bleeding. He couldn't get on the furniture so I put down blankets and pillows and we laid next to him watching tv, Ruby curled around his dog bed. We fed him pizza and stuffed cheesy bread. He wasn't very snuggly because of his discomfort, but Sunday night he acquiesced and little spooned, with his head on my arm. I told him I loved him countless times through my tears.

On Monday, December 11th, Devon and I loaded him into the car and went to McDonald's. He had a cheeseburger, fries, chicken nuggets, and a chocolate shake. He snarfed it all down like he thought we would change our minds and realize that we were making a huge mistake.

We then drove to our vet's office where Jen met us. His favorite vet tech came in and I will be eternally grateful for that. She cried while I was still trying to hold it in, and told me that I had done more than most people would have. I insisted that she look at his internal bruising and bleeding, at the cankle where liquid was now pooling into his little stick leg. Asking until the very end that I was doing the Right Thing. She assured me that I was. That it was okay and right to say goodbye.

They gave us a small button so that we could call them back for each step of the process, giving us what time we needed. I kept asking Devon if she was ready because I wasn't. He woofed down a treat as the needle went in. I pulled him to my lap before it really took effect and cradled his little bony head with those big ears. In true Boston fashion, he snored and farted to the very end, which had us laughing through our tears. And there were so many tears. I told him over and over that I loved him, that he was the goodest boy, that I was so grateful for him. I don't know what he heard or what he understood, but I hope he felt how loved he was. Because he was. Even when he was being an ass, I loved him more than I could express but less than he loved me back.

As gravely heartbroken as I was, I was filled with gratitude. He was loved by everyone he made friends with. I had messages and texts from those who cared about him. I was lucky enough to be there with him, to know that he transitioned peacefully. And god, was I lucky to share my life with him! He might have been an asshole, but I will never, ever be as good at heart as he was. No person can. The only thing he ever wanted from me was love and everything I have wouldn't have been enough of what he deserved. 

I'm finding what a complicated beast my grief is. It isn't as deep and simple as I thought it would be. There are so many times I feel perfectly fine and I wonder what is wrong with me. I feel guilty that I don't feel worse. All the time. I hope he's not watching so that he doesn't think I don't care. But then I was caught off guard going to Petsmart for gifts for Dobby, Ruby, and her cousins. It was my last chore before Christmas and the Santa Stew and pie looked so cute and made the perfect Christmas dinner for them and then I realized that Remy wouldn't get any and I cried. I cried until I saw the thickest, most gorgeous boy bulldog and went to pet him and had the thought that Remy sent him to me. At just that moment because he knew what would cheer me up. I laughed too loud and too long at a corny moment in a Hallmark movie. I cried at the studio when Freya had us bent over and laced through a chair. Being over the chair had me feeling claustrophobic, but talking about how that exercise is good for opening up and being vulnerable pushed me into child's pose so that I could hide my tears.

I don't know that it's getting easier because it's still too soon and I'm finding there are small reminders that nearly bring me to my knees when I least expect it. I know that I will miss him dearly for all the rest of my days. I've been told that he's playing happily now with Candy and Mila and Maria and Tank and Lulu and anyone else he met. And I know he is, and that's okay. But I also take great comfort in knowing that he will be waiting for me, that my own mortality is so much less scary because I will see my boy again. I have friends and relatives that have passed, but only my boy makes death seem comforting. It's a relationship that just can't be matched by anything or anyone.

Dear god or whatever or whoever he's with now, I am so fucking grateful that I got 12+ years with the Goodest Boy. The most handsome boy. Please love him for me until I can feel his puppy kisses again.