Our beloved Dino is crossing the Rainbow Bridge
. That’s what pet lovers call it because it’s too hard to say, put him to sleep.
He was a wonderful, sweet dog, with a gentle, well-mannered dispositon. We originally thought he was 6 or 7 when we rescued him in 2019, but a groomer recently put his age between 13 and 16.
He had a severe heart murmur and after an $800 visit to the cardiologist, and meds, we probably should have picked up on what no one was saying: His days were numbered.
It was great in the beginning. He loved to walk, even on the coldest mornings. I’d bundle him in his cute little red sweater and out we would go. It was a pain at times, but he needed it, so we did it.
Along about a year ago, we noticed a limp. The vet suggested surgery, which neither fixed the limp nor gave him a better quality of life. I wonder what would have happened if we’d skipped the surgery. He was never the same. I’d put the harness on, and he’d pull me back to the house.
The funny thing is I was never a dog person. Then my son went to college and I thought, a dog.
It was a hard adjustment at first, once again having to time shopping and being out of the house, like I did with a toddler.
But in these last months, when he was really failing, he followed me everywhere and would lie on the floor beside my bed when I was in it.
Then he stopped eating. I knew enough then to know the end was coming. I met with a pet store owner to see if I could get him something he would eat and she said there was no magic, just like with a kid, you can’t make him when he doesn’t want to. I remembered my son at 3.
“How will I know?” I asked her.
“You’ll know,” she said, and I did.
But it was only when I took him to the vet because he was bloated and the vet drained a liter of fluid from his abdomen that we had the conversation. I went in thinking, no problem, I’ll be here a couple of minutes, she’ll take care of him and we’ll go home.
But when she came back, she said, in not so many words, that this was the time. “He has no quality of life,” she said gently.
At first, I couldn’t grasp it. How could I make him die? But the more we talked, the more right it seemed. I cried the whole time she was removing the fluid in the procedure room. I didn’t cry at my father’s funeral ago. I don’t cry.
What right do I have to mourn a dog when people in Ukraine are viciously and cruelly losing their homes, their lives, and even, horrendously, their children? But who’s to say one’s loss is worse than another’s? Loss is loss.
The hardest part is loving him, knowing he is going away. My previous reaction was to cut and run when things got bad. I’m making myself stay present and enjoy him, even though it tears at my heart.
When he first came to us, you could not touch him on the head. Now I can ruffle his ears whenever I want. He taught me that you can teach trust. And that love can come from a place in your heart you never knew you had.
I will miss the patter of little feet when I open the back door, and the first thing in the morning, when I get up. I hope I don’t lose this generosity and compassion that he put in my heart. Maybe there’s room for another rescue, at some point. But thank you, Dino, for enlarging my life and teaching me how to love easily, relentlessly. I was never good at it before.
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