Sylvie and me, a few weeks before having to put her down.
Yesterday, March 4th, 2023, was D-Day.
We knew this was coming for a long time, but that never makes it easier. I’m in a daze this morning as I write this. Fucking gutted. My wife is wrecked. If you’ve ever lost a cherished pet, you know exactly how it feels.
We adopted Sylvie, our first baby, my veritable shadow, 16 years ago. She was an Australian cattle dog/heeler/lab mix, or so we’ve always believed. Who knows. All we know was she was the sweetest, most attentive, protective, loyal, and crazy smart dog anyone could have. How smart you ask? Trained as a puppy to ring a doorbell with her nose to go outside in about one hour. Insane.
From the first moment I was clearly the alpha. Sylvie followed me everywhere around the house every day, all the time. If I had a dollar for every time she pushed her way through my wife and me, or poked her snout between my legs from behind and looked up at me as if to say “I’m here, daddy,” I’d be rich.
Today, one day out, it feels like I have phantom limb syndrome.
Sylvie saw my family through some of the hardest times—(not necessarily in this order)— a massive house flood, two moves, adopting a second dog, my mid-life/chiron return/burnout/dark night/breakdown, marital challenges, and a grueling child adoption process necessitating several long trips out of country which Sylvie did not do well with. We knew this would be the case because early on we tried to board her for a weekend. The vet had to heavily sedate her around the clock just to get her to relax and sleep. Possibly the most codependent dog that ever lived, but in the sweetest way possible. We never boarded her again. House sitters from there on out.
I was reminded yesterday that in the early years, when I would go off to work Sylvie would sleep in my dirty clothes pile in my closet all day until I came home. And that I threatened more than once to get a tattoo of her face on my arm. I never did, not a tattoo guy, but right now I kinda wish I had. Yet I can barely stand to see of picture of her yet, so maybe best I didn’t.
In the puppy years, like most puppies, Sylvie had way more energy than we could keep up with. Thankfully at that time we lived a bit outside the city and there was plenty of room to roam through the woods. She would whip through those trails and the little creeks like a spitfire on speed. And every time I called her, without fail, she would come running right back. That made me realize I had a little ptsd from the two childhood dogs I had that ran away, one turning up dead after getting into poison. Sylvie put me at ease about a repeat of this.
Always anxious/on alert/high strung, over the last few years Sylvie had become increasingly so. Cognitive decline began to set in, and increasing difficulty holding her bladder resulted in more and more frequent accidents—to the point where shampooing the carpets was maddeningly becoming a weekly chore. And it really started to smell like a barn up in here, which isn’t ideal when you have clients out all the time like I do. My local clients know we have dogs, although few got to meet Sylvie because she would generally sleep upstairs all day, and if she came down and we’d let her in the therapy space, she wouldn’t settle down, so it could be disruptive. Unlike Foxy, our other beloved pooch, who welcomes you at the door, smells, wags and licks, then is out for the count for the entire session. But only if you’re female. She nips men’s ankles soon as they’re not looking.
Never would have guessed Foxy, not Sylvie, would be my therapy dog. But that’s how it’s played out.
Over the last years, Sylvie also became increasingly hard of hearing and unable to relax at night. Now we think it was like a dementia-related sun downing phenomenon. Her panting and pacing increased, and thus began a pattern of her keeping me awake and rousing me out of bed around 4 am virtually every morning to go out, if not sometimes multiple times a night. We reluctantly tried drugging her with gabapentin as per the vets suggestion, but that would have minimal effect, and her already weakening rear legs and hip dysplasia would become rubber on that med, putting her at risk for falling down stairs. CBD did nothing. So we lived with it and dealt with it for a long as possible. But the chronic sleep interruptions really started to take a toll on me. At my age, and with my workload, in combination with my higher guidance confirming her quality of life was seriously diminishing, and finally that it was time, we made the grueling decision.
So yesterday we had the amazing Lap of Love pet euthanasia service out to the house. Dr. Stacey was so compassionate and kind. Sylvie was, of course, having a good day, energetic (for her) and hungry as hell, which only made it more confusing and harder. The parts of all of us that felt unsure, guilty, and intent on bargaining/buying more time really struggled yesterday. Dr. Stacey assured us this is common, and that all the signs and traits we have seeing and describing were clear indications that it is time, and the most humane thing to do. We knew this in our heart of hearts, but it did help to hear it.
My wife had started truly grieving about a week early. My younger daughter, still reeling from our having to put her cat down weeks earlier did as well. My older daughter seemed a bit unphased (until the deed yesterday). My tendency with such things is to be more or less okay until the time comes. I did a workout and even saw a client yesterday, which kept my mind and heart off the inevitable. Until my wife got the call that Lap of Love was on the way. From that moment on the emotion and my tears rose up and did not stop gushing until I sort of fell asleep last night. A good illustration right here of how everyone grieves differently; in their own way and on their own timeline.
The euthanasia process, as gentle, loving and humane as it possibly could have been, was also one of the most painful things I can recall experiencing to date. If you could see me right now, my face looks like I got in a bar fight (and lost), as does my wife’s. Outside of a few crying gags 10 years ago while in India picking them up after the completion of our three year adoption ordeal, have never seen me sob like this. I’m both glad and solemn about it. Glad because it’s real life. Sadness and grief is part of it. Men cry and kids should know and see this. Solemn because it was painful for them. But we were all there for each other, and that’s what its all about. I’m so fucking fortunate and I know it.
But I have to tell you, witnessing Sylvie receive the injections, and my family helping her body to the final rest position was so brutal I could barely watch, let alone participate. My wife and girls all helped her on to the stretcher. It was all I could do to get the front door open for them to walk her out to Dr. Stacey’s car. Out there we all lost it big time. Our neighbors probably thought a human, not someone’s dog, had died.
What a strange grief the loss of a cherished dog. How utterly uniquely this bond to a creature that’s entirely reliant on you, that you never heard a word from, and don’t ever really know for sure what exactly they feel, how, and why. I’m well aware we all anthropomorphize / representationally imbue our pets with all sort of human feelings, traits and qualities to some degree or other. And that dogs especially, with their Divine unconditionality, are perfect salves for the human love-based wounds small or large we all carry. But as I vacillate today between shock/denial and acute mourning, I care not. Sylvie was the bomb, she’s gone, and it sucks like hell. That’s all right now.
I’m remembering those poignant lines from The Little Prince:
“You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”
“But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me you will be unique in all the world. To you I shall be unique in all the world.”
I realize only know, as I wait for Sylvie’s ashes to come home, just how unique. And that breaks my heart.
Sheepishly I’ll admit I’ve been quietly dismissive of the impact of the loss of pets with others at times over the years. Perhaps because all mine growing up either ran off (dogs) or died of natural causes (cats) and I never had to make the decision, witness and participate in putting one down. That, in combination with Sylvie being who she was, and literally like our first child shortly after marrying and purchasing our first home, and how she adopted our adopted girls and became their protectors as much as ours, to see that all disappear in the blink of an eye is next level.
I get it now.
As I write this I’m like a stoned zombie after a shit sleep and still got up at the usually 4-ish am due to Sylvie muscle memory. The quiet was deafening. There are more tears to come. They’re right there waiting, I can feel it. But I’m also enjoying putting some of this to written word form and sharing it here. Sublimation is part of the processing.
Otherwise, just adjusting to the first day without Sylvie’s presence while I think of her crossing the fabled Rainbow Bridge, and on to whatever and wherever doggie souls go on to, and go on to do. And reflecting more deeply about what our tamed besties are here for, what they bring to our lives, how they enrich it, and the opportunity they offer us to value, cherish and appreciate it to the fullest.
To complicate it, there were a few years, the hardest years of child adoption adjustment/middle school years that we look back and feel we neglected our fur babies. Less walks, less attention, less outward demonstration of love. And over the last 6 months or so I was frequently frustrated with Sylvie’s inability to settle down, the constant panting, pissing the floor, and getting me up throughout the night. Reconciling with that now is hard. It compounds the grief with guilt.
With human loss that often amounts to what we call a ‘complicated grief’ process. Here it just feels like human frailty and failure. And you’re left wondering how that impacted them. My wife had a good hard cry this morning about wishing to know if Sylvie forgives us for it.
Regarding grief, a long time client of mine who lost both a child, a partner, and recently his mother (who I don’t believe ever read The Little Prince) said to me recently:
“Grief is wild. It cannot be tamed.”
The conversation about the unwieldiness and unpredictability of grief in which that gem arose was largely about the sensitivity, open-heartedness, wisdom and appreciation that painful loss engenders. On the heels of this, and knowing at my age I have more impactful human and animal losses on the horizon, I’ll take whatever comes from the inevitable. I’ll do my best to give each loss its due, grieve as completely as possible, love who and what I have in my life, and allow the unavoidable, paradoxical, untamable beauty of grief to inform my outlook toward every moment on this pale blue dot of earth school.
What more can we do?
Goodbye, sweet Sylvie. Thank you for all the years of happiness and joy. Even your passing, gut wrenching as it is, is another heart-expanding gift you’ve given us, your human family.
You will be missed forever.