Goodbye Old Buddy

As I sit here writing your collar hangs from my arm. With every press of the keys your tags jingle. As I listen to the jingles and smell your fur tears run down my face. As I try and think of the words to sum up just how special you always will be I can feel my heart pounding. I wish you were here. I wish I could hear you making the jingling noise that is ringing in my ears. But I hope you are better off for not being able to do so.

As I took a break from typing to try and find the strength to go on I put my hand in the last bag of fur I brushed from your coat. How I find myself longing for the chance to scratch your side again.

Most everyone loves their dog, but to me you were so much more than a dog—and I am not saying that because you were such a great dog guide. I am saying it because you were a wonderful friend and teacher. Honestly, I learned more from you than almost any person in my life. As long as I live you will always hold a very special place in my heart. I tried to tell you that at the vet, but I know you were more interested in going home. I wish so much that I could have granted your wish, but doing so might have led to both of us suffering more than we had already and than I am now.

On March 23 1998, you came into my life. I will forever remember everything about that day. I remember the crappy Dominos pizza I ate for lunch as I nervously awaited your arrival. I remember walking down the driveway at my parents’s house and feeling the warm sun on my face. I remember crouching down in front of you and instantly feeling your head on my shoulder. Even though your arthritis and spinal problems made the feel of your head on my shoulder far too infrequent a feeling it is a feeling I will never forget. Oh, how I wish I could hear you pant in my ear one more time. I want you to know that I understand you could not give me that today—you did not know we were saying goodbye.

I remember taking you inside and sitting with you as I tried to get you to feel comfortable in your new home. I remember calling friends and telling them I was with you. I remember going to school the next day and racing home to see you. I remember the first time we went to school together. While others thought it was great that I now had a dog to guide me I was already starting to understand that your impact on my life was going to be so much more significant.

As I fight back another round of tears I am reminded of the time we were walking home from my internship late at night. Suddenly, you sprang onto your hind legs. I remember the shock I felt as your harness handle turned vertical in my hand. When you lunged forward and let out a ferocious growl I did not know what to think. When I heard this person scream “holy shit” and run away I knew something had happened. When that man came up and told me the person who ran off had been waving his hands in front of my face seconds before you went for him I knew we were bonded. In the ten years that followed I never heard you growl again. But I always knew that you would if you thought you had to and that knowledge meant so much.

As I put another ball of your fur back into the bag I am reminded of the first time we moved to Washington DC. Many people in my life did not think I should take such a big step and when we first got there I was worried that I might have made the wrong decision. But every night I would sit with you and even though I did not have many friends yet—I could always count on you. When I was feeling sad you would put your head on my shoulder, pant in my ear, and make me feel that we could do it. At one point, I thought of going home, but when I took you to the dog park and saw just how much fun you were having I knew we had to stay. When I was hesitant about going to new places on my own I would stroke your head and you would rub against me. Even though you might not have known how much you were helping the truth is having you around helped me find an inner strength that would have been much harder to reach without you.

In July of 2002 we made our first trip to meet Shirley (my birthmother). I had only known her for about a month and I had no idea what to expect. But as soon as we got off the plane you ran up to her, started crying with excitement, and moving around like we had known her forever. As I sat with you that night I asked you how you knew she was someone special. In response, you rolled over and asked for a scratch under the arm. I do not know what happened in that airport, but your approval of the situation was a good feeling for me.

For years I have been teasing her by hinting that she did not consider you a “real grandson.” But I want you to know that your death has hurt her a lot. Even though we joked—the truth is that she loved you as if you were a real son.

In early 2003 I became really sick with acid reflux disease. For about three months I was unable to walk you the way you had grown accustomed to. But most painful of all was that I was not able to spend as much time stroking you as both of us had become accustom to. As I sit here missing you that time is my single biggest regret. As I watched you put on weight and as I could tell you were growing sad I felt terrible. But whenever I would get sick you would jump from your resting place, race into the bathroom, and rest your head on whatever part of me you could reach. Somehow, I knew that even though I did not always have a person with me that you would have never let me drown in my acid. Somehow, as sad as you were, when I needed someone you were always there.

As your tags move across my leg I am reminded of the Saturday afternoon we were walking home in a huge rain storm. As we stood waiting to cross the rotary the rain was relentless. Every time the light changed I urged you forward and every time you refused to budge. I knew you well enough to trust you, but I was getting wet and frustrated. We must have waited for more than 15 minutes, but no person walked by. Finally, I told you to find our way home. Without hesitation you turned right and headed down a street we had never before traveled. I have no idea how it happened or what you did, but five minutes later we were walking up our front stairs.

When I finished drying both of us off I checked my voicemail. When Alison, one of our best friends, said through the phone that the rotary had been torn up and that there was now a huge hole in the middle of the intersection I hugged you and told you how much I loved you.

I use to tease Alison about her reluctance to warm up to you at first, but Alison could not love you more than she does. She has often said that the only reason she loves dogs is because of the time she spent with you.

That summer we met Karla and Jude. For almost six years Karla has been a huge part of our lives. She told me to tell you that she is really sorry she did not get to say goodbye. For both of your sakes’ so am I. I really wish we had been able to wait so that the two of you could have shared the goodbye you deserve, but I was too afraid of what might happen to give you that chance.

When I was studying for the bar exam I became consumed with my studies. As I feel some more of your fur I desperately wish I had been better able to trust myself enough to make more time for you during those months. As important as the exam was and as happy as I felt when I passed I would trade my score for the chance to put your harness on and take just one more walk. Oh how I wish I could hear your nose in the grass and feel your tail gently tapping my leg as you sniffed something that interested you.

As the years went by your arthritis started getting worse. On days when you were stiff I was forced to think about what then seemed so unimaginable—a life without you. As I considered the prospect that has now become my terrible reality I found myself wondering how I would make due without you. Now, that I am 13 hours and 38 minutes into this new reality I want you to know that I am hurting sooo much. But you need to know that, because of the 11 years, three months, and ten days I was lucky enough to learn from you coupled with the support of our friends, soon my thoughts will focus more on the great times we had together. As you know, there were millions!

When we moved to Washington DC for the second time I was determined to make up for the months you lost while I was selfishly locking myself in my room studying the law. Since I had complete faith in you I decided to break many of the rules I was supposed to enforce on you. OK, the truth is that some of them we had been breaking for years, but since I trusted you completely I started letting you be a guide and a pet at the same time. When possible we would leave for work early so you could sniff the grass. On our way home we would get off the bus a stop or two early just so you could enjoy your self. As I sit here missing you I hope that helped make up for the times I should have done better by you.

Later, when your arthritis started getting worse, we started requesting the wheelchair lift on buses. Even though I was reinforcing some people’s negative stereotypes of blind people by doing so—helping you continue doing what you loved and being able to keep taking you with me was more than a fair trade. When that was not enough we would take the train and use its escalators. Remember how some people use to yell at me and say that you should be retired? Those idiots—we both know you wanted to keep working. I just hope my accommodations were enough.

Every day we went to work we got to see Amy. I talked to Amy today and she kept saying how special you were. You know, Amy had been preying for you every night. She is another person who will miss you like crazy.

Our year in Seattle might have been our best. It’s true that you were slowing down, but the weather was temperate and you could still move around pretty well. For the last few months I have found myself pining for the days when we would walk to the QFC. Those four block walks, that could take an hour with how much you liked sniffing, will always be great memories; in fact, that was the last trip you ever really took with your harness on. This might sound crazy, but someday I’m going to go to Seattle and make that walk again. It will not be the same, but it will feel good to be doing something you loved so much.

Our time in California has its nice memories, but it will be a little while before I can walk past the Petco you use to love so much. Hearing the automatic door open—which was one of your favorite sounds—would reduce me to tears right now.

Honestly, the last few months have been very hard on me. I know, from seeing your frustration and the weakening of your spine, that they were not great for you either. A year ago I could not have imagined myself cleaning countless accidents off the carpet. But this afternoon, when I was cleaning up the mess you made before we went to the vet, I found myself wishing that I could have more opportunities to do this task that before today was really grading on me.

As I watched your bad days grow more frequent I knew we were running out of time. As the times where you needed my assistance simply to stand became more numerous, I knew this lonely night was looming.

Wednesday night, when I got home after being out for five hours, I could not believe you were in the same spot you were in when I left you. Hearing some urine fall from your body as I helped you stand I could not keep my heart from sinking for the millionth time; watching you struggle like that was tearing me apart.

When we came back in I helped you to the bedroom, because I know you liked sleeping in there with me. But as I was getting your treat I heard you struggling to your feet. At first, I thought you just wanted your cookie. So, I gave it to you and tried to help you settle down. As you know, you were very stubborn so you followed me back into the living room. When I sat on the couch you surprised me by putting your head in my lap and licking your mouth. When I heard your tongue running across your mouth I knew what had happened. I am so sorry that I was not able to tell you that behavior you had been thought to think of as really bad was now OK since you could no longer help it. Sadly, I no I was not able to reduce the shame the accidents made you feel. And I know that my occasional frustration with them upset you—and for that I might never forgive myself.

Last night, when I awoke at 1:15 to the sound of you urinating next to my bed, I was irritated by the notion of having to get out of bed and clean up the spill. But when I got to my feet I found you standing there with your head and tail down. As I listened I could hear you licking your mouth as the shame grew inside you. Oh, how I came to hate that noise. I know the feelings that it resulted from. As I tried to let you know that I was not mad at you I could not keep you from dragging your old body out of the room and licking your mouth as you struggled to distance yourself from the scene of your imagined crime. Those few moments will hurt me for a long—long time.

As I cleaned up the urine I knew we were just about out of time. It was my hope that I could keep you for another week—the thought of losing you was too much to bear. As I carried the urine-filled rags to the bag on the porch I heard you still licking your mouth.

When I awoke at six to give you your medicine and make your breakfast I did not know it was going to be the last meal I was going to ever make for you. But as you got up to eat you had another accident. At that point, the amount of accidents was making me very nervous.

After you ate we headed outside—just as we always did. When I noticed you were moving better than you had in days I was happy and my mind—which was desperate for hope—wanted to believe you were going to be OK.

When you took that small dump when we had been inside for a few minutes I realized that I had become so use to your accidents thatI did not even notice it right away. But this dump was very soft and I was terrified you were going to get another bout of diarrhea. Since you were scheduled to have acupuncture I took you to the vet early.

As I helped you to your feet I heard more urine drip from your penis and that damn licking sound started filling my ears. By the time we got outside your diaper was full. As we walked around the path you urinated a few more times. Even though I know you loved marking what you hoped was your territory my hope for more time was dissipating and the stomach ache I had been feeling for weeks as I tried to deal with your illness was killing me.

When we got out of the cab you urinated again. When we went into the vet you urinated again. And every time you urinated my heart broke just a little more.

At last we were in the little room—the room where our time together would end. After talking to the doctor we decided that your kidneys or bladder, two things that can be impacted by the degenerative myelopathy you had, could be starting to fail. When I started sobbing I was doing so because I was forced to consider the reality of actually giving the OK to put you to sleep. Since you were moving pretty well I decided that, at the very least, we were going to take one more walk. So, I helped you up and we went out into the sun.

We had never before walked in that neighborhood, but my faith in you was so complete that I knew we would find our way. So, I tightened my grip on your sling and we started walking. For a few moments it was as if things were how they had been on your most recent good days. We were walking pretty easily and stopping only when something caught your nose’s attention. When you met those friendly dogs I was glad that you were able to be social on your last walk. Eventually, I noticed you were getting heavier in the sling. You know how difficult it was for us to get home from some of our walks when you did too much? It’s for that reason I turned you around. I knew you would do it, because you always did what I needed you to do. But a couple minutes later we were heading back into the vet. I will never forget walking up that driveway with you. I was at once relieved that maybe our shared suffering and sadness was coming to an end, but at the same time I was thinking that I was about to have my old buddy murdered. I hope I can get over that. Just writing it is making me want to cry.

As I sat stroking you, fighting back tears, and telling you how much I love you your attention was fixated on when we were going home. As I feel your collar sliding up and down my arm I wish I had taken you home—I hope you know that. But I could not explain to you that if I did take you home there were going to be more bad days—days where you could not get up without me. Also, there was a chance that your kidneys or bladder would fail and that you would have been very uncomfortable before you died. I will never be sure which option you would have chosen for yourself—the possibility that I might have picked a different one will haunt me for years. But I decided that it would be nice for both of us if you died on one of the few days, in recent times, that actually brought you joy. I guess what I am saying is that I thought it best to help you die with a few good walks un taken rather than risk waiting to have you die when death was the only way to alleviate your suffering. I hope you can understand the pain I am feeling and that you know I did my best to determine what I thought you would have wanted for yourself. If I knew that keeping you another week or two would not result in organ failure and a terrible death—that’s the choice I would have certainly made.

After I kissed you for the last time I went outside to wait for my cab. I cried as I tried to face the reality that my life, which had for years been described in plurals like we and us, was now going to be described in the singular terms me and I

I want you to know that even our cab driver said your passing ruined his day. Since I got home I have heard from so many people who have cried over your death. As Alison once put it, “We should all try to be the kind of person Ivor is.” The selfless way you loved and forgave made you a true example for all of us who were fortunate enough to know you. Even though I was not as selfless towards you as you were to me I did love you soo much.

Even though you are gone—you will never be forgotten. Even though you are gone the lessons you taught will never be forgotten. For the rest of my life the eleven years, three months, and ten days you were part of my life will always be a source of strength I can draw on and a memory of how special love and life really are. For even in sickness and death you helped me learn much about myself. If, someday, I ever have kids I will wish they had a chance to play with you. When I change their diapers I will know that being able to get my hands dirty was one of the unfortunate lessons I learned from you and your illness.

I will always love you old buddy and my life will never be the same without you. As I sit here with the knowledge that another batch of tears is on the way I am trying to find comfort in the reality that you never again will have to endure the shame of having an accident inside or struggle to your bowl for a drink. You were the best old buddy. I want you to know that I will, as I know you would want, do my best to move on without you. I never thought I would say this, but I am so glad no one has wanted to hire me for the last two years. For if they had I would not have been able to give you the attention I have been able to give you for the last two years. Taking care of you was a frustrating job and at times a very sad one. But like any job worth having the rewards were far greater than each of the negatives.

I guess I will say goodbye for now. I know I will have more to say later, but for now all I can say before I lose control is rest in peace old buddy—you deserve it.

Tags: animals, dog guides, dogs, guide dogs, pets