Indiana Jones

There are worse things than dying. 

At least, that is what my mother told me hours after I lost my first patient and I couldn't shake the feeling of utter loss. And that single sentence made so much sense, I probably say it to myself at least once a week.

This week, I've said it at least once every few hours. This week, or nearly six days ago, we lost our Indy. Our sixteen-year-old, faithful, intensely-loyal, pain-in-the-ass dog, the one I didn't know meant so much to me. I didn't know I loved him like I did. I didn't expect to feel such a loss. 

But I do. And it hurts. 

At the (most wonderful) vet's office, Adam cradled his sweet Indy until he fell asleep in the procedure room. It was heartbreaking. He cried buckets of tears and I tried, tried, tried (unsuccessfully) to keep mine in. Indy wasn't scared. It was so peaceful. I watched Dr. Sprunger gain venous access and the thick, pink medication go into his system. I held my breath as I held his chest and felt his heart start to slow. I felt it skip. I felt its last few beats and then I felt it stop. I stared hard at Adam's face, willing him to know it was over, hoping he felt the same sort of peace I did. But, I felt my own heart break. I swear I heard Adam's shatter.

And, just like that, our loyal companion was gone. I swaddled his small body and carried him to the car. He was still warm. He seemed smaller. He was still our Indy, but he wasn't there. And the ride home was very quiet.

That dog drove me nuts in his last couple of years. He'd lost control of his bladder and bowels. He shook uncontrollably at night and chewed the floor. He fell down the stairs every morning. That was the dog we had to put down, but that wasn't the dog we knew. 

Our Indy was a part of this family. He had a funny bad attitude and loved nobody as much as he loved his Adam. And, when Adam would leave, Indy would pout and torment me with pure shenanigans until his beloved Master came home again. And I loved him anyway. And he tolerated me and the kids, even when we were intolerable. He snuggled the boys, rolled his eyes when they relentlessly bumped into him or took his toys. He cleared our floors of food. He rubbed his butt against my calves every time I was cooking and nearly tripped me at least 1000 times. 

He had beady black eyes that he would stare you down with when you made him mad, but he's forgive you eventually... and peanut butter seemed to expodite his bad mood. He never chewed on our things. He never snapped, growled, or even thought about being aggressive with the kids. He did get a little salty with me when I'd give any affection to his owner, but he loved us in his Indy way. He was one of us and he knew it.

Now, in the morning when we wake up, I lay in bed and wait to hear his shaking. Every night, the same. But it's quiet in our house. And that takes some getting used to. It's a silent reminder of a fresh loss. 

I hope he's happy where he is, chasing all the squirrels there may be in heaven; that he's met up with St. Francis and his old pal and lifelong partner, Teddy, and that he steals all the granola bars there are to steal. I hope that he understands why we did what we did and that he misses us, too. Even if it's in a sour, grumbly, old man way. 

Rest in peace and know we loved you, you little shit-hound. Your family isn't the same without you. We miss you terribly. 

Run free and fast and know we love you still.