Gracie

Grace

5 July 2000 - 23 November 2011

As most of you know, Gracie died on 23 November 2012, the day before Thanksgiving. Having to put her down seemed at the time to be the most difficult decision I've ever made, and it took about three weeks of agonizing anticipatory grief and three visits with her to the vet before I realized that in letting her go I was giving her a pain-free death.  If I'd waited any longer, she would have been miserable. 

Gracie's Last Swim

As it was, neither of us had much of a life those last few weeks.  She was lethargic most of the last two weeks, with some respites when she got some of her old energy back.  But even those days weren't perfect.  Her arthritis was bothering her, she couldn't run very much at all, and her hips seemed to give out once or twice.  The last time she went swimming at Converse Point -- about three weeks before she died -- she was eager but slow.  

Waiting for the ball

Last Swim

I could tell she was hurting, even though swimming  was what she loved best.  She did her usual thing though:  swam after the yellow tennis ball, which I threw only a few yards out in the water, brought it back to the beach, dropped it in a pile of sand and seaweed, and then rolled over on it with all four dripping legs flailing in the air.  

Really weird dog!

 Then she rolled over and placed the ball protectively between her two front legs. A classic Gracie position she'd maintained from puppyhood. There was no way anyone was going to take that ball from her unless it was to thrown it out in the water again.

 This is how I'll always remember her -- age 3. 

After the 2nd swim, I stopped, let her rinse off, and then took her up on the lawn to walk and dry off.  I knew it was her last swim and last walk on the Point, and that's really when the grief began for me. 

Diagnosis

A few days later Gracie seemed tired and lethargic, and wouldn't eat. 

Not the usual exuberant Gracie

I took her to her vet, Jean Pitcairn at Chase Farm Animal Hospital in North Dartmouth, who diagnosed her with inoperable cancer of the spleen.  We put her on some medication, including some homeopathic stuff that sometimes can slow cancer down and extend life up to a year.  It didn't work. 

At the next visit, a week later, I asked Jean if this was my fault.  Was there anything I'd done wrong?  Why so young?  Jean said, first of all, the average life expectancy of a golden retriever is 11.6 years.  Grace was just shy of that at 11.3.  So she's in the ballpark.  (Somehow I'd gotten it into my mind that golden lasted 14 years, so this seemed much too soon.)  

Second, even if I'd fed her organic dog food, vegetables, vitamins, and supplements, it wouldn't have helped.  She told me of a yellow lab whom she had to put down recently at age 7 -- because of cancer.  That dog's owners were fanatics about health, including their pet's -- making sure the animals ate healthy, organic, natural foods, drank bottled water, and got plenty of exercise.   None of it helped.  This dog died much younger than he should have, and no one knows why. 

So no, I was off the hook. Grace got good food, enough exercise, and a lot of love.  It simply was her time.

Gracie's Last Day

The cancer must have been spreading rapidly. Within two weeks, she had almost stopped eating, had days of lethargy when she wouldn't eat at all, with a day of grace between them.  On one of those days, I asked my cousin Annie, who is a professional photographer, if she would take some pictures of Gracie and me together, and some of Gracie alone.  So we traipsed out to the Point one last time, and Annie took some wonderful photos of the two of us, as you can see.  

 These six photos and the last one below, 
taken on 13 November 2011, 

are by Anne T. Converse, copyright 2011.
http://www.annetconverse.com/

Meanwhile, my heart was breaking because I knew this is the last time Grace and I would be together in that favorite place of ours. We went for a short walk too down to the pond and back.  Gracie, of course, headed right for the pond to swim, but I held her back.  Not today, sweetheart. 

The next day, I took Gracie back to Jean once more, adjusted her meds, and went home.  But a day later, finally I knew it was time to let her go.  She was getting worse by the day.  So, I put her in the car -- in the front seat for once, which she liked, since she'd been allowed there only once before -- the day Judith and I brought her home from the breeder as a puppy and she sat in Judith's lap.

We drove over in the late afternoon the day before Thanksgiving -- I recall it being cloudy and threatening rain, but not too cold -- and went in to see Jean.  I was hoping she'd have some magic cure, that there might be another medication that would help so that we could go home together. 

It wasn't to be.  Jean looked her over, and then took a sample of the fluid in Gracie's abdominal cavity.  It was cloudy with blood.  She looked at me with tears in her eyes, and shook her head.  You know things aren't good when your vet weeps.  We talked about it, with Jean not recommending anything one way or another, and I looked at Grace lying there.  She looked at me with those brown love-filled eyes of hers, as if to say, "It's ok.  I understand.  It's time to go.  But I'm sorry I'm letting you down." 

So I said to Jean, "It is time.  I don't want her to suffer.  And I'm suffering too. We better go ahead now"  -- even though I wanted so badly to take her home one more time.  But I knew it would be putting off the inevitable and just creating more suffering for both of us.  I realized I was being unfair and selfish to Gracie to postpone any longer. Jean agreed, and said I'd made a good decision.    

Jean explained carefully what she was going to do, saying it would take about 20 minutes.  So I got down on the floor with Gracie and put her head in my lap, stroked her gently, and thanked her for...being Grace. 

God's grace, coming to me though this amazing, love-filled, forgiving, funny, intelligent, mind-reading, mood-altering companion of 11  years and three months.  Thanked her for loving me so completely and unconditionally.  Thanked her for the joy she gave me.  Thanked her for always being at the door, so glad to see me  when I came home. Thanked her for her patience and forgiveness when I was late. Thanked her for allowing me to love her with no barriers.  Thanked her for always being there when I needed her.   Thanked her for the gift she was to me. 

And just before she closed her eyes for the last time, I kissed her and told her I loved her.   She died gently in my arms a few minutes later, at 5:25 pm.  May she rest in eternal peace.   

 Gracie's memorial stone

After Gracie

I drove home with her empty collar and leash -- numb, empty, drained. As I opened the door and she wasn't there waiting, then the tears started, and I wept and wept.  Hours later, I wept again in the kitchen when I saw her dish with its uneaten breakfast.   It was a difficult night, and I must have cried myself to sleep.  I honestly don't remember.

The next day, after a suggestion from a friend who has been through this many times with her goldens, I picked up all her toys, tennis balls, dishes, and towels and put them in a box for the Dartmouth Humane Society.  I took her leashes of their hooks and put them in too.  I threw away her bed under my desk, along with whatever food and meds were left.  And I vacuumed the whole house, so that no trace of her could be seen.  

The house seems so empty, so silent without Gracie. There is no other living presence here.  I know that as soon as I walk in.   I still expect her to be at the door waiting for me. I expect her to come lift my hand off the computer keyboard to say it's time to go out. I am surprised to find 6 pm has arrived because at 5 she always would let me know it was her dinnertime.

And yet... late one night a week after she died, I would have sworn I felt her put her head on my knee while I was at the computer, as she would sometimes.  In fact, I hardly took note of it and said absently, "In a minute, Sweetheart."  Perhaps it was her spirit, come to coax me up and out and then to bed.   God, I miss her, even three months later.   But I also know today is the last day I will cry for her. 

I admit that an upside exists.  Gracie's transition to her next form of energy, whatever it may be,  and absence here isn't all bad for me.   For one thing, I don't have to go out in the cold and snow and ice late at night anymore (though for a while I thought I missed not doing that!). I don't have to get up at dawn to go out either.  I can stay out as long as I want on a date and not worry about getting back to Gracie to feed and walk her.  I can even go away for the weekend if I want to.  I'm saving money on kennels for that, and on food and medicines.  I am also now free to go sailing!  And sometimes -- only sometimes -- it's nice to sit quietly to meditate or pray and not be interrupted by a cold nose in my praying hands.

Before Gracie died, in those last fearful days, I swore I would never have another dog.  For one thing, no other dog will ever be able to replace Grace. For another, back then it seemed disloyal to her and her memory. And I didn't think I could go through such pain again, and I don't want to watch someone I love go through that last part of life again, knowing she'll be gone soon.  Now, that seems selfish.  And unrealistic.  Death is part of life.  The Buddha says "Life is suffering."  He's right -- part of life is suffering.  That's just the way it is.   But part is also joy, and Gracie gave me much joy -- far more joy than suffering, for sure.  
I wonder now, why it's so easy for me to be with my dying hospice patients, why I feel so blessed, when I know how much the family sometimes is grieving and know what it feels like. I suppose it's because it's their pain, not mine. Good boundaries, I suppose a psychologist would say.  At least I can now empathize much better, knowing what they go through.


I certainly am not ready to have another dog.  Friends keep sending me emails with notices about poor abandoned dogs in shelters who are going to be euthanized in 24 hours unless I adopt them!   Sorry, pooches.  Someone else will have to take you to be theirs.  I am just not ready,  yet.  When, or if,  I am, I suspect the right dog will present herself -- perhaps in a surprising way.    

My friend Carol lost her dog a while back -- last Winter I think -- and she reports having gone through much the same as I have.  Carol kept saying she wasn't ready for another pet.  Last week, however, she and a little dog named Miss Molly found each other, somewhat serendipitously.   Molly's a scared little dog about a year old, and of very questionable background and breeding.  But she has love in her eyes, and I think that's what finally made Carol realize she is ready to love again and be loved. 

I know they will be good for each other.  Carol will quickly coax Molly out from her shadows, and perhaps let Molly do the same for her.   Molly's already been on Joy, and no doubt Carol will be teaching her soon how to tail a sheet.  (Sorry.  I just had to get that in.)  

If I do get another dog, I know she won't -- can't -- replace Gracie.  I've had other dogs before, including Astra, with whom I grew up.  I loved her dearly, and Gracie wasn't a replacement for her either, could not have been.  Astra was important to me back then, more so than I realized at the time.   

But Grace.  Gracie is without doubt the best dog I've ever had, and for that reason alone another dog  is unlikely to take her place in my heart. That part of my heart will always be hers.  

That awful gray and cold afternoon,  just before I left Grace to drive home alone, Jean said with a little smile, "Someday she'll meet you with joy on the Rainbow Bridge." I didn't know to what she was referring, but knew immediately what she meant.  Later, I looked up the reference and found this.  It's a little hokey, but I imagine it vividly in my mind today.

Just this side of heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge. 

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to a place called the Rainbow Bridge. 

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. 
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. 

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. 

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing: They each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. 

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. Her bright eyes are intent. Her eager body quivers. Suddenly she begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, her legs carrying her faster and faster. 

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. 

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.... 

And I will, with Gracie.  

Grace, 
5 July 2000 - 23 November 2011

Rest in peace.