Holding hearts

 I was working methodically through a list of heartbreaking tasks, and I felt frantic. 

Our beloved dog, who has spent the last 14 years as a gentle, loving presence in our home, was ready to leave us. And though we have gone through all the necessary steps, we were not prepared to let her go.

There had been suspicion. The gut feeling that something wasn’t right. There was something more than the aches and pains of old age. But it wasn’t until the vet called with the results that I saw the signs in sharp focus. 

Arrangements, as they say, had to be made. 

So I set the wheels in motion. As I headed off with one child to an orientation, my husband went to retrieve the other. We would meet again at the start of the weekend for one last full day. 

Afterward, the schedule would be unwavering. 

The dog would only be alone for a couple of hours, if that … there would be visitors checking in on her to say goodbye.

There was so much to do and so little time. When I returned home after dark, I couldn't see the pile of dirt my husband had excavated, but I knew exactly where it was just as surely as I knew I would forget once the hole was refilled, leveled off, and the grass allowed to grow back.

So I started to calculate. I tried to pick two points to anchor my vantage point ... as if I could ever internalize the coordinates. 

I tried another tack. 

If I stand with my back to this telephone pole … and walk seven paces diagonally toward the edge of the building straight ahead  … I find my feet at the edge of the abyss.

Of course, the hole isn’t endless. If I were to measure, my guess is the tape would read about four feet in all directions. When I allow myself to look down, I can see how carefully my husband has carved each edge.  

With the work done, I return to the house. Despite her discomfort, the dog had spent the night on patrol; at regular intervals, I heard her nails gently clicking out of our room, into the hallway where she would visit the children's rooms. She'd lie with them for a while before returning to us. 

For the rest of that day we binge-watched numbing TV while she softly snored. 

She wasn’t eating much anymore, but she gladly accepted bowl after bowl of chipped ice. She puts herself to bed at 9:30 and starts her patrol when we all turn in an hour later. 

It occurs to me that we may be stressing her out … what with all eyes and hands on her. I know I’m stressing myself out trying to find which of my seventeen makeup brushes matches the uncanny velvety softness of her ears. 

Time moves so much faster in the morning. The birds are singing. There is a breeze. I don’t want to be indoors. When the vet arrives, we are on the porch … the five of us. 

The dog is excited to see a new friend. She pulls herself to standing so she can check out the medical bag. She accepts treats. It doesn’t seem rushed, but only minutes pass between each step-by-carefully-explained-step, leading her quietly and gently away from us. 

When it’s over, I feel relief wash over me. I know grief will still visit on strange occasions: When she doesn’t come to greet us; when I can’t finish a snack and instinctively call out for her to collect the leftovers; or when I’ve vacuumed up the last of her hair from the floors.

She is at rest.

I don’t have to pace … I can plant a flowering bush … I can find the pink brush and pet the very top of its curve as gently as possible. She will be there.