She drove me absolutely crazy. She made me laugh equally as much. She stirred up my life in a way I didn't know could happen, and I think, in the end, I'll be a better person for it. She was adorable, and oh so messy. She whined a lot, begged for treats a lot, barked a lot. And on October 24th, at only one year and eleven days old, I stroked her head as she went to sleep for the very last time.
I miss that Macie.
No one is more surprised than me, but it's the truth. Over two months have passed, and I still look for her on the vent when I walk down the stairs. When I see a deer in our backyard, I often brace myself for the barking. I think of her at the strangest times, and when I do, I wish desperately that she was still here, driving me absolutely crazy. She was the oddest purchase I've ever made - me, a non-dog person who didn't ever want a pet inside our home. And yet when she was gone, I quickly realized how much she was ingrained in our daily routine . . . how much she'd become a member of our family . . . how much she was mine.
It's a long story and I've tried to write about it several times, but the words just wouldn't come out right. Basically, Macie got sick again, and this time, she was worse. She couldn't keep food or water down on a regular basis. We had to give her a bath twice a day because of the constant stream of yuck coming out of her. Her energy level was low and she had those awful, "Please help me, I'm hurting" eyes. It lasted for over a week and, once again, there were numerous visits to the vet, lots of tests yielding no results, and the same lack of a real diagnosis. All the vet could tell us was that Macie's liver wasn't functioning properly, and they didn't know why.
About a week in, my ever looming selfishness reared its ugly head and I was no longer simply thinking, this is no way for a dog to live. I was also thinking, this is no way for a non-dog person who now owns a dog to live. I didn't want to spend hundreds (okay thousands) of dollars on bloodwork and ultrasounds and antibiotics for a dog. I didn't want to hide pills inside balls of bread and try to sneak them to a dog who didn't want to eat. I didn't want to wash a dog's bottom every few hours. I mean, have you ever given a dog a bath? When it's over, YOU need a bath. And so does the rest of your bathroom. I just wanted Macie to be okay - to be her usual barking, begging, whining, driving me absolutely crazy little self.
And then, something changed. Macie woke up one morning about ten days into this second bout with illness and her tail was down. She wasn't walking right. Her stomach was hard. Worst of all, she wouldn't even think of licking a spoonful of peanut butter or rolling over for a belly rub. I knew we had reached some sort of turning point.
By that afternoon, she was shaking uncontrollably and her tongue was white. I rushed her to the vet, shocked when they put her on a scale and said she weighed almost nineteen pounds. Nineteen pounds? She was thirteen pounds three days ago and she's barely eaten a thing since . . . how can that be? The vet examined Macie. Said they would keep her overnight to hydrate her and try a new medicine. I left in a flurry, thankful she was in good hands and anxious to get to Charlie's championship baseball game. Before I turned into the ball park fifteen minutes later, the vet called me back. Macie's abdomen was filled with fluid - that's why she weighed so much. An ultrasound showed her liver and kidneys were like black holes - barely existent, let alone functioning.
I'm not sure how I made it back to the vet's office, the tears were so thick and the sobs so consuming. But I'll be forever glad I did. I missed my son on the pitching mound in the championship game. I missed him getting the hit that scored the game-winning run in extra innings. I missed him celebrating with his teammates and their families. But I'll be forever glad I did.
They brought Macie in to me. Wrapped her in a towel. Showed me the syringe of clear, pink liquid. Explained what would happen.
At that moment, I felt a sense of peace . . . of gratitude even . . . because there was complete clarity about the decision. The vet assured me that even if Macie was his dog and he had a million dollars to spend on her care, the same decision would be made. There was nothing to be done. Macie was likely born with liver and kidney problems, and she would never get better.
She looked up at me with those eyes. Those precious, big, brown eyes. And they were full of helplessness. She needed me to do something, and there was only one thing I could do. End the suffering.
The first shot calmed her instantly, and she finally stopped shaking. The next shot took only seconds, and our Macie was gone.
With her death came great regret, as I image is the case when any life ends. I should have given her more belly rubs. I should have played tug with her more often. I should have let her sit next to me on the couch.
With her death also came important life lessons. Lessons I certainly didn't expect to learn only eight months after Macie entered our lives, but ones I wish I had learned years earlier. Life is short. Love big while you can. Overlook the mess and embrace the heart within it. Don't worry about the little things - you can always replace a stair banister that's been chewed to bits, but you can never replace the sweet little puppy with the big, brown eyes.
I miss that Macie.
I suspect I always will.
I miss that Macie.
No one is more surprised than me, but it's the truth. Over two months have passed, and I still look for her on the vent when I walk down the stairs. When I see a deer in our backyard, I often brace myself for the barking. I think of her at the strangest times, and when I do, I wish desperately that she was still here, driving me absolutely crazy. She was the oddest purchase I've ever made - me, a non-dog person who didn't ever want a pet inside our home. And yet when she was gone, I quickly realized how much she was ingrained in our daily routine . . . how much she'd become a member of our family . . . how much she was mine.
It's a long story and I've tried to write about it several times, but the words just wouldn't come out right. Basically, Macie got sick again, and this time, she was worse. She couldn't keep food or water down on a regular basis. We had to give her a bath twice a day because of the constant stream of yuck coming out of her. Her energy level was low and she had those awful, "Please help me, I'm hurting" eyes. It lasted for over a week and, once again, there were numerous visits to the vet, lots of tests yielding no results, and the same lack of a real diagnosis. All the vet could tell us was that Macie's liver wasn't functioning properly, and they didn't know why.
About a week in, my ever looming selfishness reared its ugly head and I was no longer simply thinking, this is no way for a dog to live. I was also thinking, this is no way for a non-dog person who now owns a dog to live. I didn't want to spend hundreds (okay thousands) of dollars on bloodwork and ultrasounds and antibiotics for a dog. I didn't want to hide pills inside balls of bread and try to sneak them to a dog who didn't want to eat. I didn't want to wash a dog's bottom every few hours. I mean, have you ever given a dog a bath? When it's over, YOU need a bath. And so does the rest of your bathroom. I just wanted Macie to be okay - to be her usual barking, begging, whining, driving me absolutely crazy little self.
And then, something changed. Macie woke up one morning about ten days into this second bout with illness and her tail was down. She wasn't walking right. Her stomach was hard. Worst of all, she wouldn't even think of licking a spoonful of peanut butter or rolling over for a belly rub. I knew we had reached some sort of turning point.
By that afternoon, she was shaking uncontrollably and her tongue was white. I rushed her to the vet, shocked when they put her on a scale and said she weighed almost nineteen pounds. Nineteen pounds? She was thirteen pounds three days ago and she's barely eaten a thing since . . . how can that be? The vet examined Macie. Said they would keep her overnight to hydrate her and try a new medicine. I left in a flurry, thankful she was in good hands and anxious to get to Charlie's championship baseball game. Before I turned into the ball park fifteen minutes later, the vet called me back. Macie's abdomen was filled with fluid - that's why she weighed so much. An ultrasound showed her liver and kidneys were like black holes - barely existent, let alone functioning.
I'm not sure how I made it back to the vet's office, the tears were so thick and the sobs so consuming. But I'll be forever glad I did. I missed my son on the pitching mound in the championship game. I missed him getting the hit that scored the game-winning run in extra innings. I missed him celebrating with his teammates and their families. But I'll be forever glad I did.
They brought Macie in to me. Wrapped her in a towel. Showed me the syringe of clear, pink liquid. Explained what would happen.
At that moment, I felt a sense of peace . . . of gratitude even . . . because there was complete clarity about the decision. The vet assured me that even if Macie was his dog and he had a million dollars to spend on her care, the same decision would be made. There was nothing to be done. Macie was likely born with liver and kidney problems, and she would never get better.
She looked up at me with those eyes. Those precious, big, brown eyes. And they were full of helplessness. She needed me to do something, and there was only one thing I could do. End the suffering.
The first shot calmed her instantly, and she finally stopped shaking. The next shot took only seconds, and our Macie was gone.
With her death came great regret, as I image is the case when any life ends. I should have given her more belly rubs. I should have played tug with her more often. I should have let her sit next to me on the couch.
With her death also came important life lessons. Lessons I certainly didn't expect to learn only eight months after Macie entered our lives, but ones I wish I had learned years earlier. Life is short. Love big while you can. Overlook the mess and embrace the heart within it. Don't worry about the little things - you can always replace a stair banister that's been chewed to bits, but you can never replace the sweet little puppy with the big, brown eyes.
I miss that Macie.
I suspect I always will.
