When I moved to the bungalow in Fairfield, the lease said no dogs. I asked for permission and the landlord said okay, one dog. But I had two. Fifteen-year-old Sugar and four-year-old Josie. I am a rule follower, a follower in general, and it feels shameful to lie. But the options were limited. I didn’t know what else to do. It was a snowy January when I moved, and I took them out to walk one at a time in case the landlord had spies in the neighborhood.
But any fool could see I had two dogs. Sugar’s strawberry coat had gone almost completely white, and she moved as if at any moment the ground might give way. Josie with a russet coat, a slender body, pulled on the leash to gallop forward, icy sidewalk be damned.
Sugar only lived for two weeks in her new home. It was 2021, almost a year into the pandemic, and when Sugar could no longer make it down the steps, could no longer find her way around the room, I knew it was time to say goodbye. I drove her to Poster Animal Hospital, where she’d been vaccinated as a puppy. But I wasn’t allowed to go in. I had to say goodbye to Sugar in the parking lot, kneeling on the icy asphalt to kiss her and tell her what a good girl she was, how much I loved her.
And I drove back to the bungalow with Josie.
I don’t remember crying much. Maybe because I had Josie. Maybe because Sugar had such a long life. Because her decline was so slow. Because I was overwhelmed by the loss of my home and community, and letting go of Sugar was letting go of some of that burden.
Soon after that, Josie and I met up with our friends in the cemetery. We built a life together, just the two of us.
Last December Josie was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. The treatment was leg amputation and chemo that might have extended her life. I chose not to pursue those treatments.
In the months that followed, Josie slowly declined until April when the descent was more dramatic. I went on a trip to London, leaving her with her trusted dogsitter, who took excellent care of her. It was a chance to take a breath in the midst of coping with the reality of her coming death.
Over the last weekend she stopped eating. She didn’t even want her Gabapentin coated in butter. I realized that she wasn’t having bowel movements. That she must be in terrible pain because she sat up in her bad and panted, then lay back down. Sat up and panted.
On Saturday I forced some rice down her throat. Forced a Gabapentin, too. On Sunday, I came towards her with the pill and she made the deepest eye contact with me. With that look, she told me to stop, please stop. And so I did.
On Monday, holding Josie on my lap as Dr. Shin administered the sedative, I stroked the cowlicks that made swirls in her fur. I kissed the scar on her head where she’d had an ingrown hair removed at age one. I told her over and over how much I loved her.
I thanked her for all the love she allowed me to feel. I thanked her for making me feel at home in the bungalow. For guarding the door with a ferocious-sounding bark. For greeting the people she loved with a body wag and many whimpers of delight.
I thanked my Josie girl for this chance to love with all my heart.
When Dr. Shin administered the drug that stopped her heart, the last thing she did was smile. She said it’s okay, Mom. I’m okay.