Goodbye. Goodbye.

I wrote the following Thursday afternoon. (It’s Thursday night now.) The writing was a tearful affair. No real crying, I was at work after all, but my eyes remained teary for most of the second half. As I wrote all of the emotions of yesterday welled up again. When I finished, I drove home and sat in my car and cried for 5-10 minutes. The reminiscence combined with the visual clues at home was overwhelming. The shovel, the freshly dug dirt, the muddy boots all served as reminders that life would never be the same.

I seriously contemplated not publishing this.(As you’ll read below.) After reading it again tonight, and editing and adding a few things. I decided I would publish it here. I decided this is the best way to honor and remember my friend. The best way to say goodbye.

I’ll get around to writing about the Lost finale eventually. I planned to do it yesterday. That plan fell through pretty quickly. Yesterday ended as one of the worst days I’ve experienced in all of my 36 years on this Earth. That may sound like hyperbole, but it really isn’t.

I’m not sure if I’ll even publish this. It’s going to get pretty personal. Then again, this blog tends to get personal. I should tell you ahead of time; it’s going to be a little intense. Maybe even gross. I hope I can finish. I think writing it all out will be cathartic.

I’ll start at the beginning.

As I wrote on Tuesday, I took my dog, Stitch, to the vet Wednesday morning. He’d been acting abnormal for a couple of days. Mopey, lethargic. He seemed to have trouble breathing. Then Tuesday night he started coughing.

Wednesday morning he seemed exponentially worse. He was weak. He stumbled when he walked. Most troubling were the spots of blood I found near his bed and the blood laced drool on his mouth.

The vet examined him. Took his temperature. Looked him over. Listened to his heart and his breathing. He mentioned that he could barely hear his hear because his breathing was so raspy. Then he took him for a chest x-ray. Then another.

After viewing the chest x-ray, he made a diagnosis. A fungal infection had invaded Stitch’s lungs. The prognosis was grim, but not dire. Many dogs don’t survive. Many respond well to treatment. He gave us some meds and a prescription for more. Gave Stitch a shot of Lasix. And sent us home guarded but hopeful.

I was concerned, but not overly concerned. Stitch had already beaten heartworms for God’s sake. A little fungus would be nothing compared to that.

I dropped off the prescription at CVS and Stitch and I went to my office. I got him a bowl of water. He lay on my rug and tried hard to breathe. He got up a couple of times to drink water. After his initial drink, which seemed prolonged, he vomited the water, mixed with some blood, back up. My concern grew.

At lunchtime, I took him home. I put a towel on the den floor for him to lie on. Misty got him a bowl of water. I grabbed a few pieces of dog food and laid them near his head. After a few minutes Stitch struggled to his feet and stumbled to his own bed. Misty went to pick up his prescription. When she returned, I went to pick up the kids from their last day of school.

Just as The Girl got into the car, my phone rang. Misty. Her voice shook as she spoke. Stitch would not take his pill. He would have nothing to do with it. The bleeding from his mouth was worse than before. She’d called the vet back. They said to bring him immediately. I raced home to drop off The Girl with Misty. The two of them would go get The Boy. I would rush Stitch back to the vet.

I got home and Misty sat in the floor next to Stitch. He lay there completely still except for the rise and fall of his chest with each labored breath. When I spoke his eyes turned to meet mine. My heart cracked a little at that point. I still 100% expected him to beat it. It just pained me to see him suffering. And he was obviously suffering.

I picked up my dog. I cradled him like a baby. I carried him to my car to lay him in the backseat. As I carried him I looked into his eyes and assured him he would be all right. I promised him he would get better. I placed my forehead on his then placed him on a towel in the backseat.

If this were written on paper, you would begin seeing tearstains and dissolved, running ink at this point. I need a quick break.

I can’t do details anymore.

At the end of our street I reached back to give Stitch a pat of reassurance. He died. The best dog I have ever had, the best dog I will ever have, died in the back seat of my car while I sat at a yield sign.

I called his name. I screamed his name. Hoping, praying he’d just dozed off into a comfortable sleep. Tears flooded my eyes. Indecision seized me. Should I keep going to the vet? Should I get Misty? For the first few moments I could not move except to shudder and sob.

I jumped from my car and ran to the back door. I threw it open and screamed his name again and again. I watched for any perceptible movement. Any hint that there was still life in him. He did not respond.

I reached over to close his still open eyes. A move I’d seen in movies. I always thought of it as a loving gesture, but now it seemed selfish and cold. I couldn’t bear the sight of his lifeless eyes.

I climbed back into the driver’s seat, backed up the car, and pulled into the driveway. Misty came outside as I pulled into the drive. For a moment she looked puzzled, all too quickly she knew why I’d returned so soon. We spoke for a moment, but she had to leave to pick up The Boy. I sat in the car for a long time. Overwhelmed by the thought of losing my friend.

Eventually Misty returned home. She helped me remove Stitch’s body from the car. Then I cradled him one last time. Just as I had before he died. I carried him a few feet and laid him in the shade.

Yesterday, I buried the best dog I’ve ever had, the best dog I will ever have.

It’s not fair. He was only 8 years old. He was still young. He was only sick for a couple of days. God, it’s not fair!

I’ll miss our walks. I’ll miss him coming to my office on Fridays. I’ll miss taking him to the bank with me so he can get a dog biscuit at the drive thru. I’ll miss his excited leaps and bounds when he knew we were going for a ride. I’ll miss his intelligence. I’ll miss his company. I’ll miss the understanding look he gave every time I made a silent gesture to let him know he could go but Harvey had to stay. I’ll miss how he forced his head under my hand every time I reached down to shift gears in my car. I miss my Stitch.

I am very grateful for the time we had together. I am grateful for the memories he left with us.

Running in circles so fast and so low to the ground it looked like he was floating. Stumbling up from the basement to the upstairs bedroom bouncing off of the walls because his head was stuck in a paper bag that contained popcorn before he found it. Jumping on the couch and crouching low, hoping we wouldn’t see him, after we brought him home from the dog-sitter. Pooping in the floor at our house in the Cedars because he was mad about moving. Sniffing and running along the trails and through the woods at Rock Spring.

I’ll always cherish the last moments I shared with him. Our last walk. He made it one lap. He wanted to go further, but he couldn’t. The look of absolute love and trust in his eyes as I carried him to the car that last time. The last pat, just before he passed away.

I’m glad I was there when he died. Even though it’s an image that still haunts me. Last night as I tried to sleep I saw the life leave his body over and over again. Every time I closed my eyes. Still, I’m glad I was with him. I hope I offered some comfort, some strength in his last moments of life.

Now I can only say goodbye to my friend. Goodbye, my Stitch.