She left on May 17th, 2012 at 4:25 PM, Mountain Standard Time. Now, if anybody asks me why I look like I've just lost my best friend, that's because I just did.
A yellow labrador retriever named Tasha Holly Harriet [Surname] was humanely euthanized only minutes before I sat down at my computer to start writing this.
Her life quickly seeped out of her as she was given a strong enough dose of anesthetic to overcome not only consciousness but also all of her organs. From what I could see, it was completely painless, and it must have felt to her just like it looked to us - that she had just gone to sleep. The only difference this time was that this was a sleep so deep that she wouldn't wake up again.
I watched it happen in a matter of seconds, and the only indication I had that her spirit had left her body was that her whole body went limp at the same time, her neck going more relaxed than I've seen it be in years. Her head rolled to one side, then to the other, and then didn't move again. Her body still looked the same as it had only minutes before that, but there was no more panting, no more curious expression as she surveyed the world around her, no more dazzle in her eyes as she showed those around her how happy she was to be with people that she loved.
When next I reached out to touch her, there was no breath at all, no more heartbeat struggling to maintain her failing life, no stomach gurgling to remind her of her perpetual canine hunger. Even her body heat started to reduce, because she would no longer need to burn energy to keep herself warm. She would no longer need the animation to gnaw on her leash or to sniff at the air around her and detect living things or find out about the world around her. No more did she need to listen for the sounds that would inform her that she was about to be fed, or pay attention to the touch that meant someone had stopped by to pet her and give her a hug. She had, for almost all of her life, done that, and so much more, with love and courage.
Yeah, if any of you have been following my writings, you'll recognize that little phrase; Tasha is the reason that I use it. "Love and courage" were traits that she embodied better than anyone I had ever witnessed in my life. She has fulfilled her calling in life and gone far beyond her duty because she was so devoted to the family she adopted as her own that she didn't want to leave. Now, at long last, we had to make the decision to release her from all that she has done.
I received a call on my cell phone just before 6:00 PM, on Wednesday night. I received the first call as a voicemail, and before my parents even told me what was happening, I could tell from the tone of voice what kind of a situation we were dealing with... and I knew before anybody told me that this was something to do with my best friend's impending demise. Sure enough, on calling back that's exactly what I heard. They told me that an appointment was being set up with the vet for 4:00 PM on Thursday, and they wanted to let me know and see if it would be possible for me to be there to watch Tasha leave this life.
Maybe you think that sounds strange? Well, to some of you it might, but I had previously told my parents that when the time came, I wanted to be there with my four-legged friend. I wanted to accompany her on that difficult step in her journey. Now, the time had come to our door.
I spent over an hour, almost two hours, thinking about what to do, though. I was debating whether or not I wanted to go and see my dog that night. I wasn't sure if that would make me feel better or worse. Even more than that, I wasn't sure I could bear watching my parents as they reacted to this compulsory event that would be the end of Tasha's life. That wasn't something I was really interested in seeing. So I hesitated and sat in front of my computer - my illusive substitute for a friend, because it occasionally brought me closer to a few friends who were spread out across the world.
Then I got a second call from home, my mom telling me that she and my dad would be leaving to separate destinations, so if I wanted to come see Tasha for a while, I could do so. Actually, she said that I could stay the night if I wanted to.
That made up my mind. I packed up the few things I would need, slung them onto my back, and walked to my parents' house and, for a short time longer, also the house of my best friend.
I remember how much I enjoyed the walk over; the sky had opened up and offered the first real rain shower that we have had seen since last autumn, and the air smelled magnificent. Even though I'm still feeling congested and sick with either allergies or some weird cold, I could still smell something out there. Maybe it was nothing more than the humidity in the air and the soil that made the difference when I inhaled it. Whatever it was, it's like I've noted before - the air smelled like hope.
I noticed one type of tree (I don't know which, since I'm not a good botanist) that I encountered a lot on the journey, and each one showed some new green leaves starting to shoot forth. Underneath each one of them, some sort of dead and shrivelled stuff had fallen from the rain. As near as I could tell, they were the former casings for the buds that were now turning into new leaves. As I saw those casings, I saw a symbolism, like I often do. (Seeing symbols, instead of what is actually there, whenever I look at nature, is one of the reasons that I did so badly in art class.) See them for yourself.
It was a comfort to think about that while I prepared to see my Tasha for the last time.
When I got into the house, I walked around to the side door in the backyard; my parents have apparently started locking the screen door on the front, because it keeps the door from blowing open when the actual front door is open. I turned my key, opened the door, and hesitated while I waited for my friend to indicate that she had heard me.
Over the years, the sound that had become the most familiar was the rapid-fire scraping of her claws on linoleum or laminate flooring, signalling that she was trying to rise up from the floor as quickly as physically possible. Or, back in the early times, it was hearing her jump down from a piece of furniture. In more distant past, it was listening to her run down the stairs, rhythmically panting and thumping her tail against the wall while she ran.
On this particular day she indicated how long she has been on the earth degenerating. My first indication of Tasha's presence was when I peeked around the corner and saw her lying still by the front door, her back turned to me, and no obvious energy displayed anywhere. I called out to her, "Tasha," and that was what it took for her to notice that someone had come home. She scrabbled at the floor and with some effort was able to get up and come see me. It was a lot slower than she used to be able to respond, but the enthusiasm still showed. She even wagged her tail a little, something that has become increasingly hard for her to do.
I let her give me her dog hugs, hugged her in return, patted her head and back, scratched behind her ears, and let her know by both voice and unspoken feeling how happy I was to see her, though I'm sure she could detect the tinge of sadness in both. I knew that this was the last time she would see me pop in to visit her. Indeed, just about everything we did would be the last of each.
It was in the beginning of September 2010, shortly before I came home from being a missionary, that my parents sent me a letter and let me know that Tasha had started to have seizures of a sort. She would lose all control of her back end and simultaneously lose her balance. It meant, among other things, that she couldn't control her bowels, that she would fall over while trying to stand up, and that she was going to start injuring herself a lot more. When Tasha's vet examined her, he found that she was in the developing stages of kidney failure, and she also had a growing brain tumor. No matter how we approached the problem, Tasha was in her final days.
From that time until now, Tasha has been on various types of medication. It used to be that her supper was two scoops of dog chow in a measuring cup, which she would zealously rush over to devour. In the past year and a half, every time I have fed her I felt more like a pharmacist than someone preparing her meals. I measured out the exact amount of powder, dropped in the right kinds of pills at the right time, and tried to keep the bitter additions from corrupting the flavour of Tasha's food too much by spreading it out in her dish. I was glad to do it, though. In comparison to the other people that I prepare medication for, she was far more grateful for my help and much happier to be taking medication for her own benefit.
Even so, we knew that it was only delaying the inevitable. Death is one of the few inevitable events of life. In fact, I think that birth and death are the only life events that everyone universally experiences. Well, more than just that, we knew that Tasha was degenerating. Her body would not sustain her for very much longer, and there would come a day when even the medication was not enough to hold back the things that were killing her.
That day, my parents reluctantly decided, was Thursday. I suppose I knew that it was coming, and ever since Tasha had been put on medication I made sure to keep in mind that it might be the final time that I saw her. I made sure that there would be no time that I left without giving her a hug, letting her know she was a good girl, reminding her that I care, and thanking her for the service she gave just by virtue of being her.
Actually, that's not the only reason I knew it was coming. I could see her condition getting harder to deal with, every time that I saw her. Even though I don't currently live with my parents, I often went over and saw my furry blonde friend. The excitement at seeing me never dimmed. Her desire to be close to me during her rest times didn't disappear, either. Her tendency to follow me around like a shadow only faded once she wasn't able to walk. Tasha always remained Tasha in her spirit. That never gave way. Tasha's body did, though. The muscles in her back legs began to atrophy and her joints got stiffer. Abnormal lumps of fat started to appear and to keep swelling on her underside, making it uncomfortable for her to lie down. She had little energy, and to cope with the pain that she felt when she was lying down, standing up, sitting, or walking, she had to sleep a lot. And yet she chose to stay awake whenever there was someone around her, because she knew that she preferred being with special people rather than escaping to an imaginary world.
...Yeah, chalk up to Tash one other thing that she has taught me.
She was brave in her fight against the degradation of her body, but she wasn't able to fend it off, and we never expected that she would. There was a point, a few months ago, when her state turned from being basically healthy with occasional seizures to being naturally unhealthy with occasional moments free of seizure. The good moments got progressively farther and farther apart, and we knew that she was hurting, though she would never complain and never let us see how much she was hurting. As the vet said, gentle breeds of dogs like Tasha don't let on how much they suffer, and they will instead hold on for longer than you'd imagine them to be capable. They are loyal enough to put off the rest that awaits them after death, if it means they can live to be there for their families. But by and by, we could tell that Tasha needed to go home. That is, from one home to another.
My parents had asked me, one night when I was visiting, what I thought about Tasha's health and the possibility of putting her to sleep. I knew that my bitter friend the Grim Reaper was standing at the door.
I've looked into the eyes of that Reaper. He only looks frightening if you let him. To me, the black cloak is a sign of respect, an acknowledgement of a light about to depart; the scythe is a quick, sterile way of accomplishing his work with as little pain as possible; the spectre face only what you see if you see "with natural eyes;" if you only see things of the flesh, you will see what remains of the flesh when one is dead. If you see with "spiritual eyes," with eyes of hope, with faith in what you can't see but which you know to be true, you would see what I see. Were you to see what I see, the Reaper isn't Grim so much as... I would call him the Solemn Reaper. Whenever I see the Reaper, the shadow of death, he looks to me with sympathy and tells me without a word that he knows the sorrow we will feel, but the time has come to take another spirit home with him.
You could say that in that moment I had seen that Reaper, and I knew in my heart that it was true - Tasha needed to obtain her rest. She would never go unless she was commanded to go, I knew. So I admitted that I had seen how hard Tasha's life had become. She rarely seemed like the excited puppy she once was, because it required more energy than she had to give. She had difficulty moving anywhere, she couldn't perform her most basic functions without help, and the only thing she could do without pain was sleep. Put like that, who was really benefitting from her continued life? We were - but at her expense. Who would benefit from Tasha being put to sleep? She would. Yes, we would suffer at her loss, but that was our expense to buy her passage into something better. That was the day that I said that I thought it needed to be done, and that when the time came for Tasha to enter her final sleep, I wanted to be there with her. I didn't want her to suffer longer, but I didn't want her to think that I was in any way happy about the thought of her leaving me.
I spent every moment as close as I could to my puppy, my friend, and I will even go as far as to call her my saviour. Not my Saviour, but a saviour nonetheless.
Some may have told me in the past, "She's just a dog, [TAB III]," but that doesn't change the fact that she was one of the purest-hearted individuals that I have ever known. During the time that I knew her, I've never known her to do anything worse than have accidents in the house when she couldn't contain herself any longer; to growl and snap at other dogs, something I assume she picked up during her years as a street dog; and to have just once slept on the couch after being told not to. She never forgot that lesson, either. Sure, Tasha's genetic make-up made her a dog, but that didn't make her "just" a dog. She has literally been a lifelong friend. And what kind of friend would I be if I knowingly left her alone during her final hours?
So it was that for the rest of that final day, I was not going to separate from her. At least, as much as it was possible. I stayed with her on the main floor of the house, as she was no longer able to climb stairs. She wandered around between the kitchen and the living room a couple of times, trailing me everywhere, and I decided that on her final day I would let her mooch off of me and take some of the food that I found. I even opened the fridge door and let her do an inspection of the fridge for longer than usual, though her sense of smell was only at a fraction of what it once had been. Sure, I was letting her be a spoiled dog, but she'd more than earned it, especially for a final day.
In the following hours, I mostly just sat or lay beside her, stroking her fur, reminding her what a good dog she had been, and openly speaking to her about what I was thinking and feeling. Sometimes she slept, sometimes she would lie there awake, listening. It was during one of those times that I told her, though nobody can tell for sure how much she understood, what was going to happen at 4:00 PM on Thursday.
I've personally been of the belief that dogs and other animals don't completely comprehend our languages, except for the few words that we train them to understand, but that they can sense intention and emotion in a way that words don't convey. They can smell fear and untrustworthiness, they can sense happiness and excitement, they know when someone is sad or hurt. Heck, even scientists have found some strange evidence that makes it seem that dogs are able to detect cancer in their owners. I don't think it sounds too crazy to say that Tasha knew what was about to happen to her.
She was as calm and peaceful as always. I've actually never seen her shiver with fear except for when she heard an overloud noise or got into a fight with a big dog. This time, she was calm and accepting.
I told her about how I felt that she had gone above and beyond her duty. I reminisced about how she had come to me during one of the hardest times of my life and been my friend, how she had stayed with me long after that, and so forth. She was the only one home and thus the first one to give me a hug after I had an overwhelmingly stressful first day of grade 10. She was the one who was the most ecstatic to see our family come home from holidays in B.C., or to pick her up from somewhere that she had to be left. She was the most excited to watch my brothers and I come home from week-long camps, the only friend I've had who would run in circles at top speed because she couldn't contain her happiness. She was there for me to hold onto if I needed to secretly cry about something, and she would do the best thing anyone could: say nothing, be close, and make it clear with nothing but her presence that she loved me. She had been with me through military school, junior high, high school, unemployment, a mission, relationship issues of various kinds, upheavals of every kind, and still kept on coming for more.
I recounted all of this to Tasha, and she accepted all of it with grace. She could die in peace; her work was done, and there were no regrets in her life. She had fought a good fight, she had now finished her course, and always she had kept the faith.
I only left Tasha's direct presence long enough to use the bathroom when I needed to, and came right back to see her. I stayed with her all night. I got my laptop, settled myself against her, and I wrote the other blog post about her, finishing at 1:00 AM. I then said good night to her, and lay down on the couch to try to sleep for a while. Technically we were still in the same place, with nothing more than two sheets of drywall between us, but I almost wished we could have shared a room again for her final night.
As it happened, I woke up a few hours later to hear Tasha scrabbling at the floor, and I got up to see what the matter was. I opened my eyes to see her walking towards me with a funny expression on her face. I checked the kitchen, and sure enough she had had an accident, one of the biggest that she ever had. I told her, "Don't worry, Tash. It's ok." It was true; she simply had too little control over everything from her waist down, so it wasn't her fault. I patted her head reassuringly. I would have started to clean up, but my mom also woke up and took care of it for me. I was kind of grateful. Not that I didn't like helping out Tasha with her accidents, but I had been feeling sick for a while (I'm still recovering) and sleep was to me the same as it was to Tasha; it was a necessary recovery tool, and the only time when the hurting stopped. She and I fell asleep again, for a few hours more and got ready for the end.
I hope that she didn't work it out into her mind that her accidents had anything to do with why we had her euthanized. I hope that in her mind Tasha didn't think that we were mad at her for not being able to control her own bodily functions. I know that would have broken her gentle heart; nothing made her sad in this life except for being told or shown that she was a bad dog.
Tasha... just remember, like I was telling you... you were such a good dog... truly a wonderful companion...
And finally, the morning came. The final sunrise that Tasha would witness in this life, and the final sunrise that I would see while still having that blessed friend of mine by my side... well, it was there.
Again, I didn't leave Tasha. Even though she took a few naps in that morning and afternoon, I couldn't be anywhere else. I read, watched videos, answered e-mails, and all the while I maintained physical contact with this dog, a little reminder that I was there.
When she was awake, I talked to her some more, got a few final photos, like the ones that you see here, and I picked up my dad's old harmonica to play a few tunes for her. In earlier times, my brother had found out by accident that Tasha would sing along to the harmonica. While I was away as a missionary, I learned how to play songs on the harmonica. So while I sat with Tasha, I tried out a few of those songs, just for remembrance. It showed in Tasha's eyes that she recognized the sound and what I was doing, and she seemed to enjoy it, but the look in her eyes told me that her voice wouldn't allow her to sing along anymore. It would have been too hard. Even so, I kept going...
"Come, come, ye saints... no toil or labour fear. But with joy wend your way. Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day," rang the harmonica.
"Sometimes I despair the world will never see another man like him," the harmonica continued as I played the original "Superman Song."
"And should we die before the journey's through, happy day; all is well! We then are free from toil and sorrow too; with the just we shall dwell," the harmonica assured with the last of the hymn, "Come, Come Ye Saints."
Tasha listened with her silent gratitude and peacefully rested her head on my leg. Nothing more needed to be said.
I still talked to Tasha, though. I don't remember all of the conversation, or how much of what I was thinking about remained in my head, as opposed to what she heard me say. But let me give you the full run-down of what I do remember right now.
I've noticed how many times and in how many ways you could say that the bridges were burning behind me. I've noticed how the world doesn't look like it used to, and how I'm not able to fit into a lot of my old sanctuaries. There are even pieces of history that I have clung to like amulets, ordinary things endowed with mystical properties of protection and peace. I've seen how many of them cease to work.
There was a time in my life when all it took to fend off sadness, all it took to forget that people generally didn't like me was to switch on a large switch marked "Power," and the Nintendo 64 would cause the screen to light up and greet me with, "It's-a me! Mario!" or something to the same effect. I've tried it since, and I'll never be able to make it feel the same again.
It used to be possible, if I needed a quiet place, to ask Tasha to come walk with me in the back field. I could leave her to her own devices, and she would get engrossed in the stories of living things as she followed the trails of scents, while I walked over to a certain grove of trees, knelt down and poured out whatever I was feeling to the only friend I've ever had who could rate higher than Tasha.
There is now a highway and meaningless mounds of earth in the place where that quiet grove once was.
It was once possible to drift off into an imaginary world, place myself there, and watch stories unfold in ways that left me feeling happier and yet being forced to grow more than the real world ever did. Now... that haven doesn't feel the same; if you do that for long enough you start to realize how lonely you are in the real world.
In general, I used to be able to block incoming attacks and disasters with my "amulets." I always did, and I continue to rely on what's called "the armour of God," in order to stay away from sin and darkness. But as for emotional tribulations and personal attacks, I thought I had to find something else to use as my shield.
One by one, I have been finding those amulets stripped from me, and here, one of the greatest ones lay beside me, breathing a little more heavily than she once did. Soon I would not be able to rely on that one friend who would never abandon me, who would be a friendly heart to draw to whenever need arose. She was going to take her journey to a place where I couldn't follow her. I would have to take on this next leg of life's quest without her help. I would need to prove that I still had what was required of me if I had to make it on my own. I would need to prove that without one of my most powerful of amulets, I still had strength that came from inside of me; that I was more than the value of my equipment.
That much remains to be seen, as time goes on.
I held onto Tasha as long as I could, and as often as I could during those final hours. I gave her squeezes, rubbed her ears, made sure I would remember the texture of her fur on my face, took in the smell of her fur, and even took mental note of the smell of her breath. In spite of that, though, I think that I was trying not to think of her too intensely at the time. I needed to take in the information, but not process it. If I could keep the memories in that state for a few more hours, I would be able to endure.
There was no stopping the time from creeping in, though. My mom made Tasha her final supper - some of her favourite dog treats, bits of apple, pieces of carrot, all mixed in with her regular food that she enjoyed every morning and night. And this time, I'm sure to her delight, no medication. She wouldn't be needing it any longer.
Around that time my dad came home to see the smallest member of the family for the last time.
...I don't really know what to say about that experience, so I leave you to see the pictures yourself.
Ok, seen enough?
Thanks. I'd rather we move on, because this gets harder as time goes on.
In that final hour, I tried not to think too much, and I tried to accept what was about to transpire.
Then we got ready to go. We gathered up Tasha's collar, the collar that she now only rarely wore because it hurt her neck at times, and the leash that had taken her on so many walks in so many different places. We set down her blanket on the back seat of the car for her to lie on, and told her to come. I'm glad that nobody actually said, "Tasha, do you want to go for a ride?!" because normally that question would get her excited and bouncy no matter how tired she was. And after a reaction like that, I would have felt treacherous to be accompanying her to her own death.
Still, she looked...
...
I have to say, this is the look of someone who has lived a full life and left behind no regrets, who approaches the end with a clear conscience and doesn't fear what lies ahead, because she knows the condition of her soul.
This also happens to be the last picture that I took of her while she was still alive.
That look in her eyes, it conveys purity. It conveys complete trust in her family, love, and contentedness.
I think she knew... that as far as she is concerned, I don't have any regrets, either. She is probably the only friend that I have never spoken to harshly, the only one that I have been happy to see regardless of circumstances, and the only one that I could physically speak to and hold nothing back. I don't have any regrets about not spending enough time with her; I spent as much as I could, in fact more than most people would think typical of a boy and a pet. I never think that I didn't tell her enough times how loved and appreciated she was, because I took every opportunity I could get to remind her of those things. I don't feel like I abandoned her in times of need, and I want to think that if ever she was in need of someone to talk to in her non-verbal way, she found what she needed. Even for the two years that I wasn't able to see her, I checked that everyone kept giving her the same kind of affection. Only the best for my friend the Tash-dog.
I kept my arm around her as we drove to the pet hospital. The drive was only about seven minutes... not long at all.
I went in with my mom, while my dad and Tasha were in the car.
I read the disclosure/disclaimer form which explained how Tasha's life would be ended, and my mom filled out a form explaining what we requested to be done with Tasha's remains, with a signature would acknowledge that we understood what was about to necessarily take place.
I went to get Tasha out of the car, strapped her collar and leash back on, and led her into the hospital. She recognized the place that she had frequented over the past year and a half, and greeted it with the same sunny disposition that she always did. That was when the first involuntary tears started to break past my defenses. Here she was, so happy to see her doctor's office, of all places, where she had been at times poked with needles, had swaths of fur shaved from her neck, had examinations inside of her mouth, underneath her tail, on her paws, and in her eyes. She was still happy that she was there, because she remembered it as a place where she received attention, was cared for, and knew she was loved.
That's what everything in her life was about, and I can safely say that such was the case right until the very end.
Her vet came to see us into a small room, a sort of reception room between the lobby and the lab itself. First a veterinary assistant took Tasha away for a minute, so that she could insert a catheter tube into Tasha's leg. It would be the way the lethal mixture was administered without suffering. Then soon enough, Tasha was back with us, and it pained me a little that she looked so excited, as though she seemed to think that was all she had to do; she had passed that test, so it was on to more fun things, right?
...No, Tasha... whatever fun things you do after this are not going to be with us... just wait here, and we'll be here for as long as you have left.
While she waited, Tasha still chewed on her leash as she always did when she was excited or anxious. Right in those ultimate minutes, she looked and sounded like an energetic puppy again. Light danced in her eyes and made her heat pump with excitement. I want to think that she knew what was about to happen, or at least had a vague idea of where she was going, and that was what gave her such enthusiasm.
That was the second moment that a couple of tears overwhelmed my defenses and fell onto the couch where I was sitting with my parents. I willed them away for just a little longer; there would be time to weep.
...You know, like right now.
So, you'll have to excuse me for a while.
Ok. Let me see if I can finish this.
The hands of four different people kept constantly petting Tasha, though to be honest I think it was more for the reassurance of her family than it was for her.
This morning, I came across a quote by Samuel Clemens, whom we better know as Mark Twain. My parents gave me a day calendar for Christmas, and every day I'm given insight to what the witty writer had to say. At times his sarcasm is the type that would set me at odds with him, but more often than that he says something profound or even emotionally touching. This particular quote was timely indeed for what was happening in my life. It says, "Why is it that we rejoice at a birth and grieve at a funeral? It is because we are not the person involved."
That could be taken from two different perspectives. My research has shown me that Mark Twain was never entirely definitive about his believe in God; he apparently fell somewhere in the spectrum between agnostic and deist - that is, not sure there is a God, not sure there isn't, but willing to keep an open mind about the matter and hope for the best. From the agnostic side, you could say that Mark was being cynical, and he was saying that life is such a terrible burden that those who enter this life must be sad and those who leave it must be relieved. On his more optimistic and possibly faithful side, he could have been saying that at a birth, the one involved would be sad to have left such a beautiful place, and that at death they would feel happy with the fact that they were going on to better things, and at last they had earned their rest.
Tasha embodied that principle. This faithful, loyal, loving servant was about to go home. What did she have to lose? ...Well, besides her adopted family...
It was more for us, then, that we reached out and touched her for the last time we would do so in this life. Still she looked around, curiously, perhaps expectantly.
The vet explained to us, in the meantime, what was about to happen. The syringe that would fill the catheter tube with the same kind of surgical anesthetic that Tasha used to receive for other operations, but this would be such a large overdose (about fifteen times the dosage used for surgery) that it would not only make her lose consciousness, it would also make her lose the ability to breathe, to use her heart, or for her brain to send or receive signals to the rest of her body. She would forcibly go to sleep and not wake up. Her vet also explained that it would be over in a matter of seconds - five seconds at most - so that as soon as he started to administer the chemical, she would be gone, so if we wanted our last moments to say good-bye, it would need to be before he started. We all took our turn. Dad first, whispering some final words to that ever-loving puppy, then Mom, some simple declaration and bidding Tasha good-bye. Then me, putting my head to hers in the typical fashion of dog hugging, planting a kiss on her forehead, telling her she was a good girl, and silently speaking as I had so often said before, I love you.
I think she understood it all.
The vet got his syringe and asked if we were ready. My dad said, "No, but go ahead." I couldn't have said it any better than that.
When the first of the syringe's contents hit Tasha's bloodstream, she noticed. She started to turn her head towards the right, but then started to feel sleepy. Her panting stopped, she rested her head on her left front leg, and there it stayed. Her head shifted a little as all of the muscles in her head and neck relaxed at the same time. A few seconds later, all of the solution was in her veins, and though I couldn't see it, her heart stopped beating, and all of the other processes inside of her body ceased. It was over.
As I watched Tasha go down, that was the third time that a few tears sneaked past my insistence not to express the hurt just then. In my mind I said, Good-bye, Tasha. For the first time in years, I didn't feel her heart respond; I didn't get her unspoken agreement, at least not that I could detect. She wasn't there, in that moment. Maybe her body was, but the rest was off somewhere else. And though I couldn't sense her presence like I often had, I did feel assured that now she had peace.
There was no more life inside of that body. The dearest part of my beloved friend is not present, in this picture. I'm not sure where it is, exactly, but I have no doubts that it continues to exist. It's just going to be a long time before the next time that I see that fairer portion, that which makes Tasha be Tasha.
The vet checked his watch - 4:25 PM was the time of death for Tasha Holly Harriet [surname]. He wanted to wait for a minute to make absolutely sure that her body's shutdown had been complete, and after waiting he confirmed it. What lay before us was no longer a dog, but the body of a dog. My friend had successfully embarked on her next leg of journey.
We thanked the vet for helping to carry Tasha there, and I could see that he had been through this before, and he understood. I don't think that invoking separation like that will ever be easy for anyone.
So, where four members of my family had entered those front doors, only three of us exited. I still did my best to keep back the tears, and to comfort myself in the fact that I know that death is not the end.
Death isn't this infinite abyss, this oblivion that consumes everything; life is not some accident and flip side to the coin. It occurs to me that those who say that it is - that there is no life after this - have to say that with as much faith and as little proof as those who say that there is.
I know it, though, that death is just a dark gateway. The metaphorical Solemn Reaper, as I have come to think of him, escorts those departed souls onwards and proves to them that there is something more on the other side of the doorway - and it isn't pointless oblivion. That's where Tasha now resides, along with the majority of my friends. Rest in peace and be happy there, Tasha. And like Dad said, "You go find Grandpa. He'll take care of you." While you're at it, tell your parents I said hi, just like we talked about. I'll come see you all when I get there, so have fun and be happy until then.
***
When I created this blog, I called it the Sword of Peace, and I only recently remembered why. It's because the truth and speaking words of truth are two things which have been likened to swords. And they are swords of the best kind, because they don't usually need to end lives. They change lives. They don't need to defeat enemies by expelling spirits from their respective bodies - they are swords that let enemies cease to be enemies and begin anew as friends.
While I still don't know exactly where I will go with my blog as a whole, I do know that whatever I declare will need to be truth, and truth that I deem to be important to me and to others around me. Today came some of the truths that accompany the life of my now departed friend, Tasha. In particular, I want you to remember something that I learned by way of parable with the leaves that I mentioned in the beginning.
Death, like any sleep, is temporary. It gives way to newer, better, and more beautiful things. Just as northern Canadians need to bid farewell to the blossoms, leaves, and fruits of the trees for six months or more out of every year, so too do we need to part with those that we value so deeply - but it isn't forever. Make note of what the new leaves look like in the spring, and you'll understand one of the final truths that Tasha showed me with the greatness of her life.
I'll have more to say later. As for right now, I'm going to enter into another temporary sleep, try to carry on as best as I can, and starting tomorrow prove to the world and to myself - and to Tasha - that I can still endure without my chosen "amulets."
And even as sure as I am of my dog's state of being right now, I still have to take a moment to grieve the loss of a wonderful friend.
TAB III
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