A Death in the Family

I arise out of bed around 6:30 in the morning. After washing up and getting dressed, I walk into the kitchen and approach the closed laundry room door. As I push the white door open, for the first time in fourteen years, our little brown, short-haired mini-dachshund Oscar does not come bolting out.

His bed is still there. His water and food dish are empty and stacked on top of each other. A half filled bag of dog food remains on the floor next to the dryer. On top of the dryer are two cans of soft dog food. We tried everything to get him to eat and gain weight toward the end. Sharon even made boiled chicken and rice for him. Nothing seemed to replenish his energy or put meat on his bones.

We sit down at the table in the kitchen. I have made scrambled eggs and bacon for Sharon and me for breakfast. Oscar should be standing on the floor beneath us, his large brown eyes giving us his best sympathetic beg for food look. If none is forthcoming, he might actually jump up on our lap at the table. Sometimes he would lose his balance in the effort and tumble backwards to the floor, then spring up as if to say “I meant to do that”. He wasn’t hurt and we would laugh hysterically.

After breakfast we go out for our morning exercise stroll down the local river walk. Several friendly faces come by the opposite way with their dogs on a leash. Just the way we used to walk Oscar down this path virtually every morning. We would get annoyed at his frequent stops to sniff a leaf or a pine cone. He loved these walks. People came to know him and greet him by name at the park.

We sit in the living room to relax, perhaps watch a little TV, or read, or peruse social media. Sharon and I have side-by-side rocker recliners. As soon as we sat down, Oscar would pick one of us, usually Sharon, jump up on her chair, and snuggle into her hip, gradually dropping off into a contented nap. If Sharon has to get up out of the chair to go do something, Oscar immediately comes to the other chair and nestles in with me. He disliked being alone. He relished human contact. As he got older he couldn’t manage jumping up on to the chairs any more. We bought him a set of dog steps so that he could climb up to us.

Today we are both sitting there in our chairs. Even though we are right next to each other, we can’t help feeling a bit lonely. Our little buddy is not there to snuggle.

We decide to go out for lunch. It is automatic that any time we leave the house together, we must first take the dog out. It is branded into our brains. I find myself going to get his leash. It takes a moment to realize there’s no need. We open the kitchen door leading down the steps to the garage to get in the car. We have always had to remember to close that door behind us, otherwise Oscar will come down and roam the basement. It occurs to me that it no longer matters. Door open, door closed, there’s no one to escape.

Oscar had the uncanny ability to know when it was 5pm. That was his feeding time. He would confront us and bark at us, letting us know what time it was. His tummy was as reliable a clock as a sun dial.

Evening has come. It’s time to hit the bed. There’s no need to tell Oscar what time it is. When we turn the TV off, he immediately jumps down and heads into his laundry room bed, anticipating his good-night snack. But on this night I grab the remote and push the power button. The screen goes black, but there is no thump as he hits the floor. No pitter patter of little paws tapping on the kitchen tile and fading into the laundry room. No snack to hand out.

It’s hard to comprehend how much Oscar was a part of our daily life routine. The decision to put him down was one of the toughest we have ever had to make. The veterinarian assured us it was the right thing to do, before he entered the suffering stage. Oscar drifted off to his final sleep in our arms, peacefully enjoying our caresses.

I find myself in emotional gridlock. I want another dog, another companion. But I don’t think I can handle this kind of heartbreak again. We’ve said good-bye to other pets in the past, and it just keeps getting harder. Maybe it’s because we are getting older and approaching our own mortality. I guess I wrote this blog as a kind of self therapy. I apologize if it brought you down. Oscar brought us a lot of joy and I’m sure eventually we will remember only the good times. We gave him a good life and he returned the favor.

Pets give us something we seldom find in fellow humans: Unconditional love. Oscar gave us fourteen years of it.

Turns out it wasn’t enough.