Snap By Snap

It was very, very quiet in our house. Too quiet.

By the time Goldie had been gone for three weeks, we were ready for another dog to love. We had first met "Elroy" just two weeks after Goldie died, when we wandered by an adoption day in the Petsmart parking lot. There was this whiskery faced black and brown terrier in a crate, looking lively. I looked over in time to see the little guy lock eyes with Mark and stick his paw out of the crate to him. It really was love at first sight. But, we weren't ready yet, so we went home - confident that when we were ready there would be a wonderful dog for us, and that Elroy would certainly find a home. Several families were also looking at him that day. How could you not want to take home that face?

It is a sad time here at the Dobbs' house. On Friday, we had to say goodbye to our beloved Goldie. Eighteen months ago she was diagnosed with a slow growing cancer, and we were sure the end was coming. But she stayed fairly symptom free and happy until earlier this year. Then she began having more trouble with arthritis, and her heart began to be enlarged. Her eyes were clouded with cataracts and she was almost completely deaf. Still her life was very good. She ate (lived to eat, actually), loved to greet us when we got home (although she now often slept through our arrival), and love to take walks (shorter and slower but begged for nonetheless). Our Goldie aged gracefully, for the most part. Her face was completely white, but she was still a strikingly beautiful dog. As she aged she lost all inhibition when it came to trash cans, or raiding the pantry, and she had no problem at all barking at us to get what she wanted. She was almost 15.

On Friday she ran across the yard as she always did - to bark at passing kids - and injured her back leg. She could not put any pressure on it at all. I carried her inside, and we drove to the vet, her head in Amy's lap. She had torn a ligament on one of her back legs, completely disabling it. The injury that would require surgery to fix; a surgery she could not survive. Her age and her arthritis wouldn't let her manage on three legs, even if  her heart would have held out. We also knew that in the last few days her lungs had begun to fill with the fluid that marks true congestive heart failure. As much as we'd prepared, as much as we'd known it was coming, we weren't prepared in one hour's time to hear that it was the end. And it definitely was. The three of us cried and told her goodbye as the doctor injected her leg and she drifted quickly to sleep. It was wrenching.

There is such a fine line between life and death. One moment she was living, breathing, connecting, loving and the next all that is left is the shell. We drove home without a word. Shocked. And so began the grieving process.

We are still very much in the  midst of the grieving for our Goldie. Little things stop us in our tracks - like not putting a dish on the floor for her to lick. Thinking we see her or hear her in the house. Coming down in the middle of the night and finding the downstairs empty and silent. Watching a movie without once pausing to let Goldie out. But one thing that has really helped us in these first days is our photos. Looking at the snapshots of her life makes us miss her, but they also make us smile and tell stories, and remember what a very wonderful thing our relationship with her was.

Her portrait, ball, and collar now have a special place on the family photo shelf and Amy and I are going through photo albums, digital files, and the many stories Amy wrote about her when she was young. All of these will go into a book about Goldie, along with each of our memories. But as much as we'll love having the book - it will really be the process of writing it and compiling it that will be the healing for us.

The dark side of grief would have us retreat, withdraw, and avoid the pain . . . but these images from our years with Goldie draw us out of that place. There's more pain but also more joy in remembering her life as we sort photos, tell stories, laugh, and cry. Together.  It helps us move beyond remembering the death, to remembering the life. And what an exuberant, passionate, energetic, fun, and loving life it was.