OT: This is the first chapter I have written for my book...
It’s Just Not Home Without Her
My puppy died. At 13 she may have been far from an actual baby dog, but at first glance her small stature as a Pomeranian and always inquisitive ears made Delilah appear to be a precocious puppy, even in her advanced age. Upon closer inspection the gingerly way she walked betrayed arthritis in her joints, what appeared to be light blonde fur around her muzzle and eyes turned out to be the dusting of white that came with age and the way her glossy brown eyes looked past objects instead of at them, revealed the extent of her blindness that also came as she aged.
I’m not the first college student to lose a pet. The timing of college in a student’s life in relation to when families usually adopt dogs and how long those canines tend to live, well, it is almost as if the stars aligned and planned that when a child leaves the nest the family pet has served its purpose. Just like getting a drivers license and taking the ACT, burying the family pet is part of growing up. Somewhat painful, yet strangely liberating.
Delilah came to live with my family when she was six years old. When her previous owner, an elderly woman, passed away, Delilah was left to be cared for by family members until a more permanent situation could be found. When we learned of the availability of a small, blonde, housetrained dog, we couldn’t have dreamt how perfectly Delilah would complement our lives. My two sisters and I longed for a pet and though my mother was reluctant to bring a strange canine home, from the moment Delilah entered our house we fell in love and there was never any looking back.
First impressions are everything, and with Delilah, the first impression was definitely one of sophisticated vanity futilely attempting to hide terror. She was a purebred, perfectly built, show worthy Pomeranian who had spent the first six years of her life as the center of her owner’s universe. But underneath Delilah’s pride was a creature unsure of her future, now that she was without the only faces she knew. Those first few days, as anxiety turned to thoughtful curiosity, her real personality came out in spurts, and my family got to know our newest member.
It soon became apparent that Delilah didn’t know how to play. Her pampered life as a lap dog in a home with an elderly woman didn’t lend itself to tug of war or fetch. She had a “baby”, which was really a stuffed gray elephant that had one eye lovingly licked off and was missing an ear. My sisters and I would playfully tug at the baby while Delilah cleaned and cuddled with it, but instead of grabbing on like most dogs and pulling back, Delilah would let go and look a little befuddled and offended that we, like big bullies, would take away her lovey. With time Delilah developed her own form of playing, which involved more belly rubbing than typical dog rough housing, but it made her happy and that made us happy. Any growling Delilah did during play was always done with a wink and a smile, and sometimes it was almost as if she surprised herself with the canine sounds she could produce, so to make sure we knew she didn’t mean it she would flop over on her back and offer her soft underbelly for a pat, as if to say “Did that come out of me?”
Most dogs snarf up anything remotely edible as soon as it hits the floor, but not Delilah. Presented with a warm plate full of fine white meat chicken (her favorite) cut up in bite size morsels, instead of immediately starting in, Delilah wanted to think and just enjoy the idea of having a plate of chicken. She might lay by the plate, but while near it she made a show of ignoring it. Eventually she would wander over and sniff, but it wasn’t until many minutes later that she would actually start in on the food. She didn’t just eat it either. She would carry food, piece by piece, to other parts of the living room, presenting some to her baby, hiding other pieces behind furniture for later and finally, laying down to enjoy the rest at her leisure.
Some of her “dirty habits” included hiding dog brushes and shredding used Kleenexes she would snitch from wastepaper baskets. She was generally a mild mannered dog, but if anyone would even suggest the word “brush” she turned into a wild beast. This meant that most of her grooming occurred at what we called “the beauty parlor” which was a handy euphemism for vet’s office, where more often than not she was sedated. Picture our ten pound, fluffy little dog intimidating a staff full of people who handle animals for a living, to the extent that they had to knock her out to brush her hair. That’s my girl. She liked to show off how pretty she was when she got home from the “beauty parlor”, shaking her silky locks and prancing around for all to see, and in those moments one could almost forget the raging monster she had been on the way.
Being a small dog and a lady, Delilah was a wimp when it came to interacting with other dogs. The few times we dog sat for friends, Delilah spent most of her time hiding behind our couch, nervously waiting for our house to become a single doggy dwelling again. First there was the big golden retriever who confused Delilah with a squirrel and then the toy Pomeranian (as in smaller than Delilah by almost half) we dog sat that found it easy to intimidate Delilah out of her food. And she wasn’t just afraid of other dogs. For a time Delilah shared her title as “family pet” with an admittedly, abnormally large guinea pig named Truffles. She was curious about the football sized rodent, but all Truffles had to do was look at Delilah and she was sent cowering to her safe hiding spot behind the couch.
She wasn’t a complete doggy sell out, though. Back in the days before Delilah went blind, I took her to our front yard so she could do her business before bedtime. She was sniffing around as usual when an elderly man and his equally elderly Dalmatian came strolling by in the twilight. The Dalmatian stopped in our yard and in a rare moment of doggie territorial behavior this was unacceptable to Delilah. Before I could stop her, Delilah raced over like a streak of blonde vigilante justice to confront the Dalmatian who had ventured into her domain. I was shocked and figured I would have to wrestle her from the jaws of the Dalmatian, who was at least six times Delilah’s size, when this was over. She ran over and with all the strength of an annoying summer fly she head-butted the Dalmatian squarely in the chest (the highest she could reach) before her wits returned. She must have realized what she had done because before the old Dalmatian could react, Delilah retreated to the safety of the porch. I’m not sure that the Dalmatian even noticed because he just wandered away without complaint.
Delilah was famous to my friends and any visitors to my family home for not making much of a fuss when people entered, but when it was time to leave she made her objections very vocal. For some reason, we suspect it has something to do with a canine equivalent to separation anxiety, but at any rate, whenever anyone would leave, or even look like they were getting ready to leave, Delilah would inconsolably bark and cry and jump in circles. It was as if her little heart was breaking every time anyone left, from the cable guy who had been there for five minutes to immediate family members who lived in the house. We always joked that robbers could gather up all of our belongings and not worry about Delilah until they tried to leave.
What I loved about Delilah most was her ability to have innocent and simple happiness. It was not uncommon to come home and find Delilah with her whole body curled up and napping on a scarf or knit hat, forsaking her dog bed just for the novelty of snuggling on a scarf. It was also not uncommon to come home and find the house filled with shredded tissues and a very happy Pomeranian trying to look innocent with pieces of Kleenex stuck between her teeth.
She loved us too, eventually becoming an integral part of our “pack”. If I, or one of my sisters, were eating anything Delilah would go to my mom and signal to her that she wanted whatever we had. She would look up sadly to my mom and then over at whichever of us were eating as if to say “Amy has something and she won’t share. Make her share mom.” Be it popcorn, steak or broccoli if we had it she wanted some too, not that she would necessarily eat whatever it was, she just wanted us to offer.
Early in her life with my family she also served as a fuzzy alarm clock. My sisters and I were cranky preteens when Delilah came to live with us, so sometimes getting us up and on our separate ways for school was an arduous task for my single mom, who often was the victim of preteen morning-induced angst. So instead of arguing with us, she would drop Delilah in our beds. Delilah would either settle in for a nap, or more often she would perform what we called, the “happy snuggly dance”. It is hard to describe, but if anyone happened to see her do it they would recognize it. She rubbed her head all along whoever she was in bed with, and then snuffled, pawed and crawled all over her victim until we were up and smiling back at her. Because you couldn’t help but smile back at her. I smile when I think about her smile. Her mouth was a constant toothy grin, but that smile hid nervousness, fear, sadness, and in the end it hid a painful terminal illness.
Over this past year I was very sick. Lots of doctor visits, a few hospital stays, a handful of surgeries and buckets of medication. For a while my family had to feed me through a tube and there were weeks no one was sure if I would pull through. At the tender age of 21 I was slapped in the face with my mortality and moment to moment I didn’t feel well, I was tired all the time and there was no end in sight. In the meantime, Delilah, in her old age, grew more like a crotchety old woman, opting to spend most of her time napping behind the couch instead of snuggling or playing. But during my illness, as I slept on my mom’s couch, Delilah slept on the floor next to me, ever watchful. When I found myself kneeling in front of the commode, blood vessels bursting in my face as I violently heaved, Delilah cried outside the bathroom door, summoning the rest of the pack for assistance. It was exhausting for both of us. One evening, after an excruciating day, I gave up and curled up in a ball on the couch and cried. Delilah had long since given up jumping on furniture because of her arthritis and because she usually found someone willing to lift her up, but she made an exception for me that day. I noticed her and I knew she was asking me to pick her up in her own way, but because I had just had surgery a few days earlier I was too weak to lift her. Undeterred, she backed up a few feet and made a running leap to land beside me on the couch, the last time she would ever do that. A little doggy therapy was just what the doctor ordered. She snuggled with me on the couch for a few hours, both of us drifting in and out of sleep, because I needed her to be there. She smiled at me, not nervously, not scared, just content to be serving her purpose. That is one of my most precious memories and is a snapshot of how I will remember Delilah. Unknown to us at the time, beneath Delilah’s contented smile that evening, lurked an illness that would snuff out her little life in less than a month.
Delilah’s last day with us the vet came to my mom’s house so Delilah would be comfortable. In the weeks leading up to that cold December morning Delilah’s health had taken a sharp turn for the worse. She had started having seizures, her organs were failing, she could hardly walk and she had stopped eating; not even chicken soup made special for her was enough to get her to eat. The vet said nothing short of a miracle would cure Delilah. We knew she was in pain, but that didn’t make the decision any easier. How do you just decide to play God and end a life you hold precious? The answer is through much sweat and tears. We tortured ourselves over it, with “what ifs” and second guessing, but then her soft whines as she lay at our feet made the course of action we needed to take painfully obvious. She had spent years taking care of us, and it was time to return the favor one last time. We decided it was time to put her to sleep. The night before, we took turns holding her and without actually speaking the words, we said our farewells and tried to make peace with the choice we had made. She was lethargic and dozy, but I think she knew, as our tears wet her fur, that the suffering would be over soon. Then the morning of December third my mom held her as my sisters and I gathered around, the vet inserted the needle and Delilah didn’t even have it in her to struggle. The ferocious beast was tamed by sickness and fatigue. We told her that we loved her, that she was beautiful and that we were so lucky to have her. I looked into her big brown eyes and she smiled at me as her breathing slowed, she visibly relaxed and finally her heart stopped. I can’t think about her sad brown eyes without my heart hurting. Later that same day my doctor told me that tests confirmed my illness would not wreck my life any longer. Delilah hung on almost long enough to see her healing touch come to completion.
This is the paradox of pets. We love them fiercely, yet the most we can hope for is a decade or two of their company. We love them knowing of the inevitable hurt we will suffer when the sand runs out on their brief lives. But I have come to the conclusion, as I think most pet owners eventually do, that it is good to love and to hurt like this. Growing up hurts. Delilah really was a big part of what made my family house “home”. Even with all her ailments Delilah made visiting a joy. No matter how long I had been gone or how short a time I had to visit, Delilah always remembered me and greeted me with the same enthusiasm as if I had never left. The next time I venture to my family home the only thing to greet me at the door will be a ghost of a memory that will stir sad fondness instead of the simple delight my sweet baby girl used to bring. I am thankful I was able to be there for her at the end the way she was there for me all along. Sad to see her go, but happy to offer my reassurance that no matter how short a time she was here or how long she would be gone, that I would always remember her as if she had never left. Now Delilah joins the honored file in my mind with the memories of slumber parties and snow forts. I guess you could say I’m one step closer to being grown up. And I guess, with time that will be okay.
PS - Here she is...
Amy 293/140 - AT GOAL! 
*~*Jaci*~*
The more things the change, the more they're still the same.
