Wine a lot?: May 2013

Everyone has heard of and likely experienced the Five Stages of Grief at some point or another: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. It has only been two days (how is that possible since it already feels like it's been way too long since they last time I held him?!), but I have definitely spent time in the first four of those:

He can't be gone.

Why can't special animals like him live longer?!

If I could have just had one more day with him... One more hour... I'd give anything.

I can't do this; it hurts too much. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I don't want to get out of bed today.

The fifth stage pops in now and then, but I certainly haven't yet come to terms with this loss. And I don't want to accept it. Accepting means acknowledging that he is gone. And I don't want him to leave me. About a year or more ago, I ordered a small "Roo" stuffed animal from the Disney site. Remember him? He is Kanga's kiddo from the Winnie the Pooh stories. It was one of the nicknames I often called Mac: my Roo. Mac used to love soft squeaky toys, but as he aged, he lost teeth, and he lost interest in "recreational chewing." I put the stuffed little Roo in the dog bed on the floor next to me with Mac at night time, and he would often rest his face and head on it, using it as a pillow and a comfort toy, or he would hold it with his paws or just have it next to his head. Now I hold it, and I press my nose to it so that I can have Mac with me, if only by smell and Roo association.

I also have the dingy yellow towel that I wrapped him in when I walked into the vet's office. It is the one that was limp and empty when I walked out without him. I don't want to wash it; I don't want to let it go. I have my South Carolina stadium blanket that I covered him with when I would lay him on the couch next to me; he was under it just before we left. I wrap myself in it, and I don't want to ever wash his scent off of it either. And then there is his collar... I found it several years ago at the Scottish Highland Games in Winter Springs. Mac's "real name" is MacGregor, which is a large part of my family heritage as my grandmother's lineage is linked to the Clan Gregor (ex. Rob Roy MacGregor). The collar is the red and green tartan of the Scottish clan. It's well-worn and torn in a few places, but I can't seem to stop holding it in my hands. I don't want ANYONE to touch these things. I keep them close to me but away from other hands and paws. They are HIS. They still smell of him. And he is mine. To let anyone else handle them, to wash the items he last used... it would mean that he was really gone. I haven't washed the shirt or the pants I wore when I last held him either. And it was hard to take a shower and wash the arms that held him so tightly, but I guess I have to draw the line at being completely disgusting and not bathing, right?

So Acceptance is out of the question for now, but in this case, and I would assume with many other cases under which similar circumstances have occurred, I have learned that there is an even tougher 6th stage in this cycle: Doubt. Did I do the right thing? Should I have "saved" him? Was he really ready or did I jump the gun? Maybe something could have been done. Does he blame me? Does he think I gave up on him? Does he have any idea how hard for me to let him go? Can he possibly know how much I love him? I can torture myself with these scenarios for hours.

There have been some reassurances along the way. My brother lives with me, and he had been around Mac daily for the last few years (since 2010 when I came back to Orlando). He told me, "I have no doubt that you did the right thing. I saw him; he was ready." My mother offered, "Veterinarians are bound by law to only euthanize an animal if it is the best and most humane option for that pet. He wouldn't have done it if he didn't think that Mac would eventually rebound." She also said that when she saw him at her house last Sunday, she knew he was not doing well; she was actually amazed that he lived as long as he did after his seizure last week because she thought it would only be a matter of hours then.These sentiments help, but they don't prevent me from going there in my mind many times since I had to make that very painful decision.

My brother brought him home yesterday. I had pulled out a baby picture of Mac a few weeks ago - my absolute favorite. He is laying on the twin bed in my senior year college apartment, and his tongue is sticking out of his mostly closed mouth because it was too big for his puppy mouth at the time. It was the cutest oddity about him at that time. He was so "new" that I hadn't even given him his first haircut. Ned chose that photo to put in the cherry box I had selected from the crematorium website the day prior. It was perfect.

He will always be that puppy. He can run. He can jump. He can race up and down the stairs. He can scratch behind his adorable, floppy ears with his back paws. He can leap up onto the bed and settle up against the warm body under the covers. He can leap down and loudly drink water out of his bowl at 2 in the morning, and then land on the one who is trying to sleep there when he returns to the bed. He can make a valiant attempt at escaping from the tub in mid-bath. He can even lift his leg to pee without falling on his side! All things that he was not able to do for the last several months of his life.

That is how I will choose to remember him, and what I hope will help me eventually reach the Acceptance stage. Until then, I will pinball between the other well known four and my invented sixth. And I will keep smelling my Roo's Roo, that ratty yellow towel, and the last blanket I put over him on the couch, all while holding the Clan Gregor tartan collar in my hands.

I lost my best friend today. MacGregor of Walterboro Robinson (known by most as "Mac" - schnauzers have "titles") died just after 11 AM on Wednesday, May 8, 2013 in my arms at Oviedo Animal Hospital, the place he had received the most amazing care since 1997 when we first moved to Orlando.

I wanted to write this while I was still able to remember everything, and though I fight to see through the many tears that have fallen consistently since around 5 this morning, I know it has not sunk in at all yet that I will never see my little boy again.

Mac died in my arms (I insisted on holding him), sitting up in my lap like a little person as he always did. I held him and whispered, "I love you; I love you so much" over and over in his ear while I kissed him repeatedly on his soft head. Mac never stirred while the vet (Dr. Wiseman) searched for a vein with the needle in his right front leg. Finally, the injection went in, and when it was halfway finished, he growled a little in a very low voice and stirred. The same thing happened when the vial was almost out. I felt his heart beating furiously, then it slowed, then there was no heartbeat. Dr. Wiseman put his stethoscope up to Mac's chest and said, "His heart has stopped beating." Mac's back legs started to kick a little, then his chest heaved several times like he was trying to catch his breath (Ned says he was gone; it was just a chemical reaction). I held him so tightly and told him again how much I loved him. The vet said I could take as long as I wanted, but I couldn't stand to hold his little body with his eyes still open, looking up at me, and feel the warmth leave it. I didn't want to remember that. I didn't want that to cloud the many, many, many, many memories I have of me holding him, which was multiple, multiple times every single day I was blessed to be with him.

Mid-August 1996. About to start my senior year of college in an off campus apartment (which at USC meant that it was down the hill from the campus!) with my roommate Wendy. My plan after graduation was to go for my doctorate in psychology, but I didn't know where that would be. I had lost my childhood dog Pepper (also a miniature schnauzer) about a year and a half earlier. I knew that I wanted to get a dog when I lived on my own, but I also knew how much work a puppy was, so I decided that I would get one now so that he (I knew it would be a male mini schnauzer) would be housebroken and acclimated to life with me before we took off for parts unknown. I also recognized that I may well end up in a place where I knew no one, and I wanted to have someone I loved with me.

I looked through the Pets section of The State newspaper on a Sunday (yes, the actual paper - internet was new and rare at the time), and I found an ad for mini schnauzer puppies - a whole litter of them who were just now ready to find homes (at 6 weeks!). Wendy and I drove to Walterboro, SC and met the people who had the female schnauzer. She was all silver; her mate was all black. There were 7-8 puppies from that litter; some were salt & pepper, and a few were mostly black. The owner (who had never bred puppies before but told me a new neighbor had moved in with a male schnauzer so they decided to give it a whirl) put all of the pups in the back yard to play so that I could see them in action. Before long, one of the salt and pepper males hopped up behind one of his sisters. He stuck his nose under her tail and flipped her right over! I knew he was the one - the silly little troublemaker! :) I took him home with me that very evening, and I remember feeling a little sick to my stomach later that night after I realized that I was now responsible for a life. I momentarily pondered calling the breeder to ask if I could bring him back! But of course I already knew I wanted him with me forever. The woman told me to put him in a box overnight to start crate training him, so I did. But then he made this completely pathetic sound (a cross between a kitten and a dying chicken, I think), so I got up, picked him up out of his box, and planted all 3 pounds of him beside me in my twin bed. And that was that! His tongue was too big for his mouth when he was a puppy - it was pretty stinkin' adorable (as shown in pic above). And it took awhile for him to grow into those paws - he'd hop, trip, and slide all over the place.

But he was an incredibly fast learner, and crazy smart. He would steal Wendy's socks and run under her bed, knowing the exact place to be where she couldn't reach him. Then, when she adjusted her position, he'd move to the spot she couldn't reach from that angle! A couple of years after we moved to Florida, Wendy came to Orlando to visit us. She opened her suitcase, and then went into the bathroom to put some toiletries away. He went straight to that open case, grabbed a pair of socks, and scurried under the guest room bed (coincidentally, the same one she had used in our former apartment!)! But he never in his life stole anyone else's socks!

Mac was the most loyal, smart, loving, sweet, non-yippy dog I have ever known. He would just look over at dogs who barked at him wondering what they were doing (I am convinced Mac thought he was human!). He only ever barked if he thought I was or might be in danger, and he would carry on like nothing else when I was in the pool or lake, convinced I was drowning! He was certain in those cases that he was Lassie. My cousins came to our lake house for a reunion one summer, and Mac had a fit when he saw the kids repeatedly run down the dock and jump off the end. He even tried to get in their way and block them as they started down the pier. Finally, he actually jumped into the lake to try to "save" them. The only problem was that MAC was the one who needed saving! He could not swim at all - not even "dog paddle" - literally sunk like a rock! :)

Everyone who ever met Mac loved him, even people who didn't like dogs couldn't resist him! My ex had a friend who was scared of small dogs (even though he was 6'6", a former UCF basketball player, and had a "tough guy" persona). One night I picked my ex up from downtown with his friend, and his friend decided to crash at my house on the couch. I came down the next morning to find him spooning with Mac! My friend Frank would come over for dinner a couple of times a month before he met his now wife. When they began to get more serious, I told him to bring Milurka over with him. He did, and she immediately warned me that she did not like dogs at all. Mac wasn't taking no for an answer. He jumped up next to her on the couch and gave her some serious adorable "under the lashes" puppy eyes. He definitely knew how to work it! After that night, every time they came over, Milurka happily patted the seat next to her for Mac to jump up with her and often held him in her lap. Frank was excited, thinking he might be able to get a dog. "Only Mac!" was Milurka's answer.

Whenever I traveled out of town while we lived in Orlando, my parents, brother, or Granddad gladly kept him (and spoiled him further!) for me. I can remember crying once when I went to Scotland because I was so far away and missed him so much, but I knew my grandfather was letting him hang his head out of the car window, was taking him for long walks, and dropped him a steak on a regular basis! Highly doubtful that Mac was missing me quite as much :) When we moved to Charlotte, I found a wonderful pet sitter who would come to the house and care for him while I traveled for work. She had been in this profession for almost 15 years, and she confessed to me that even though she wasn't supposed to have one, Mac was truly her favorite. She would arrange her visit schedule so that he was the first one she got to in the AM; she would spend extra time with him in the afternoons; and he was the last one she saw for the bedtime visit so that she could sneak extra time with him. She even taught him how to play hide-n-seek!

Mac somehow always knew when I was feeling badly - whether it be from a cold or an emotionally tumultuous time. Before I was diagnosed and properly medicated for depression, when I hit my lowest points and thought about how I might end my own life, I could never carry those thoughts out - one look at him and I knew I could never leave him. He literally saved my life on more than one occasion. And, if you think about it, Ellie's too. Somehow he knew when I hit those lows - he would wake up from a deep sleep as if he had a sixth sense and come over to where I was. He'd either sit on the floor and look up at me with his dark brown eyes, or he'd jump up wherever I was and comfort me.

And he knew how to give hugs and kisses - he knew what those words meant, and he knew how to do both on command (and often when you didn't want him to - especially the wet kisses!). He followed me EVERYWHERE! He would never let me out of his sight, and if I dared slip past him while he was asleep or distracted, his little face would pop around the corner as soon as he realized I'd left his view. He also wouldn't let me work too hard. When I'd be plugging away at my laptop late at night (often after already putting in 70-80+ hours that week!), he would insert his face in front of the screen to remind me what was most important.

I always knew that I would never let him be in pain, and when he woke me this morning by crying out in agony, something in me knew it was the end. He had stopped trying. He often fell over the last several months, but during the past few days, he didn't even try to get back up as he always had before. He was lethargic, didn't want to stand up, didn't want to do "his business" outside, didn't follow me wherever I went (even with just his eyes), and he didn't want anything to eat... I even offered him bacon! Who turns down bacon?! I thought about keeping him with me all morning, and then taking him in the afternoon, but he looked up at me, and he told me he was ready. Whoever said dogs do not have expressions never met Mac. He truly did. And he told me he needed me to let him go. So I wrapped him up in a large, yellow towel, and we took our last drive together. He weighed only 14.1 lbs (Mac was usually 24-26 lbs throughout his adult life). He was frail. He was listless. He was ready. And I held him to the very last second (and a little beyond), loving him with all of my heart, knowing that I had to be selfless and be there for him as he had been there for me his entire life.

I know that he lived a good, long life - more years than most dogs his size and breed ever see. And I know that there is no person on this planet who loved him (or could ever love him) more than I did. I can remember being pregnant with Ellie and wondering to myself if I could ever love a child as much as I loved my dog. To some, that may sound silly, but only if you didn't know Mac (when he was Mac; he declined significantly in the last several months of his life). As someone said to me yesterday, "He sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime dog." If any words ever could, those pretty well sum it up. I also know that my Granddad is taking care of him for me for now - throwing him steaks and taking him on long walks on the golf course. All of these things are comforting, but none of them can ease the pain I am feeling right now. He is gone, and I will miss him terribly for the rest of my life.

I love you, Mac. You will always be my first baby, and you have left a tremendous hole in my heart that can and will never be filled by anyone else.

My Mac through the years (of course there are HUNDREDS if not thousands, but these are a few I have available online and they are some of my favorites)...