Tag Archives: grieving over a dog

Goodbye Gracie Girl

On Friday afternoon, we said goodbye to our baby girl, Gracie.

When I first met my husband, I’d never had a dog, never wanted a dog, never understood what it was like to love a dog. I’d worked for not one, but two, pet companies. First, a veterinary specialty clinic where I spoke to owners who drove hours across the country for the absolute best orthopedic care for their pup. And then, for a dog daycare franchise’s home office, colocated with one of the daycare centers so I watched pet parents spend thousands of dollars a year because they couldn’t bear leaving their pup at home all day long. I knew in my heart how much people must love their dogs, but I couldn’t feel it myself.

Until about five years ago, working still at the daycare, when I first met Grace. When I walked into the kitchen, a few steps into the house, she started wagging her tail and peed all over the tile floor. In that one moment, I felt my heart soften.

After hours of watching other people with their own dogs, running into the daycare or the veterinary clinic, and still more time spent in the room with two surgical coordinators explaining next steps and estimates to our clients, shouldering the weight of many a desperate phone call about setbacks and pain, about side effects of medications, this moment finally did it. How can someone you’ve never met love you as soon as they lay eyes on you?

Jamie told me he’d been talking to Grace about me, saying how she was going to love me when she met me. I didn’t believe it. But then, I saw them together. And I watched them lay on his bed and he would. He would talk to her about me and say, “See, this is the girl I told you about.” And I realized he had. He had told her about me. She had been waiting for me and she knew, when I walked into that kitchen, that I was the girl he’d been talking about.

I hate that I have to write this in the past tense. I still want to talk about her like she’s right here, waiting at my feet because I’m sitting at the kitchen table so I must be eating, right? But she’s not.

She was a fighter. Her kidney levels first took a turn in July 2017, but she didn’t show it. Even in May, when the vet told us that she needed to go on a new diet, we didn’t believe it. The only signs were her constant need to go for a walk and her excessive thirst. Only a few weeks ago, after several failed diets and some weight loss because she was too stubborn to eat anything but her regular food and treats, did we switch her to a full-blown kidney disease treatment: pills, omega-3 supplements, kidney-specific food. And still, she wasn’t acting differently. And then, all of the sudden, she was. And there was no turning back.

I’m realizing now that unless you’ve ever lost a beloved pet, you won’t understand. I sure didn’t. But losing a pet is like a hundred micro heartbreaks every single day.

It’s the bad things you miss, even though you didn’t expect that you would. It’s expecting her to follow you into the basement to get the laundry, and having to coerce her to come bouncing back up the stairs with you. It’s expecting her to hop off the couch or clomp down the stairs when someone opens a takeout bag of Chipotle, or Chinese food, or Chick-fil-a, or anything really. It’s every thought you have that you’re used to saying out loud, like the phrases you’ve said a hundred times when she goes to nose open the bathroom trash cans, or hop up to get to the trash in the kitchen when you throw something away, or when she doesn’t want to come downstairs when it’s time for you to leave for work, or when you really need to pee before you can take her pee, right when you get home from work, so you tell her to go grab her leash. It’s expecting her to lick the dishes in the dishwasher. It’s not having to leave the light on when you go to get takeout on a Friday night. Or not having to worry about what time you get home. Or not having to put the gate on the stairs. Or wash a hundred rugs because she can’t walk on the wood floor without slipping and she can’t hold her bladder very long.

It’s the good things you miss too. Like the way she’d wait for you to give her a treat after a walk even if you already sat down in the other room, so she’d stand in the hallway staring at you, unwilling to move. Or the way she wiggles into the tinniest spots to sit next to you on the couch. Or the way she climbs over your computer keyboard when you’re trying to type. Or how she sprawls out on the bed like she owns the place. Or the way you joke that she’s well overdue on her rent payments. Or the way she wags her tail and stands on the sofa so she can see you the minute you get home from work. Or the way she always, always, always wants to play with her toys. The avocado and the two Santas and the snowman with no arms. Elmer the elephant she only got because you needed free shipping on an order for her veterinary diet. The slice of pizza bigger than her face. The many toys she tore to shreds within hours. But mostly, it’s the way she sat with you whenever you needed her, like somehow she knew, and maybe she did. Especially on those Sunday afternoons when you were alone for 8 hours, just you and her, while Jamie went to the Redskins games. She always drove you crazy wanting to walk every 30 minutes but you would’ve treasured that time a little more if you knew it would be gone so quickly.

I might’ve only gotten 5 of her 13 years, but every day my heart grew with her. They don’t make ’em all like Grace. She was something fierce, something special, someone you simply can’t replace. I don’t know that I could even try. I just hope she keeps showing up for us, in the smallest places, in the smallest ways.