Cali Died

I was wrong. My husband, regrettably, was right. Cali was reviving and giving us the opportunity to say and do what needed to be said and done before she came to the end of her time on earth. She wasn't getting better, she was finding closure.

We're grieving.

Last night, I'm reading the news, everyone is in bed and she groans from the laundry room. It was cold last night so she was inside, thankfully. The groans sounded serious. Frightened. I ran.

There, laying, splayed on the floor looking helplessly up at me was Cali. She had no strength or coordination. She couldn't move. Her wasted muscles shook with effort. Her eyes shone with panic.

I called Steve. A scared, cornered animal, a sick one is dangerous. Even when you've loved and lived with someone for years and trust runs to your toes, caution should be exhibited. He wisely hesitated to move her. I jumped in. If she bit me, so be it. Gently placing her back on her blankets her kind eyes filled with fear and relief, my fear almost got the best of me.

She's nearly 15 years old. She's been healthy that entire time. She has had a good life. It is never long enough. There is more happinesss to share, more petting, more playing, more exploring. There is always more.

Cali didn't want to be alone in the laundry room. When I settled her in, got her more water, checked all her parts and then closed the door she moaned. So we opened the door placing a flimsy barricade so she could see out and we could see in and we could be connected.

This morning she hadn't moved yet. When she saw me, she tried to stand. She couldn't. Steve and I took turns taking her out, holding her up, so she could relieve herself. She fell while trying to pee in the yard. This couldn't go on much longer.

First, she lost her fat, then she lost water, in the last month she had been losing muscle mass, now she was losing her nervous system. Up until this point, we had seen no evidence of pain. We could touch her, hug her, pet her everywhere and she never complained. She never nipped. She never cried out. She ate well and drank well and functioned well, but she was definitely sick.

Today, though, while she still seemed to feel no pain, her fear was palpable. This could not go on. We talked. I called the Vet. A decision was made. 4:30 p.m.

I called my mom. My sister. My brother, who got Cali from my sister as a puppy. We all agreed. Everyone said goodbye to Cali last weekend. Everyone knew it was the end. Everyone but me.

Steve'e folks are in town. His dad always loved Cali. Everyone who loved her most got to say goodbye. Steve and Dick took Cali to the "appointment". When Steve returns, he tells me the Vet cried, too. How do these people do this? What an utterly heart-breaking job. Euthanize. Doesn't really cover it, does it?

Before this, the kids said their good-byes.

"Mama, we need a new dog. Or a new cat. Yeah! A new cat," my son said.

"Cat's die, too, you know," said my daughter.

"Do they? Mama? Do cats die too?" he asked.

"All living things die," I told him. This news disappointed him and he was silent as he pondered the implications.

We hugged Cali. Told her we loved her. My daughter sobbed and ran into our yard. I followed her. Together we cried and picked a place to bury her. Her brother followed us.

"She'll be back tomorrow, right Mama?" he asked, still trying to wrap his mind around the permanance.

"She won't come back, honey. She won't breath. She won't bark or walk. Her body will be here but she will be dead." There. I said it. Dead. My daughter sobbed harder.

While the men ran their grim errand, we colored pictures of Clifford the Big Red Dog to put into the hole with Cali. It was therapeutic and calming.

"Cali will be in Heaven, right Mom?" my daughter said.

"Her body will be in the ground,"I say, "but her spirit will be with God."

"God seems far away," she said. I silently agreed.

"This isn't God's world, "I said quietly, to myself. My daughter heard.

Dinner needed to be prepared. Fed the kids so the adults could have a quiet meal after. Steve and his dad came home. His dad started digging. Steve came around the house holding Cali like a baby.

As the sun was setting during this clear, beautiful, brisk, sun-filled day, we watched the hole get deeper. We petted Cali's head. We peered into her staring, gentle eyes. She seemed so alive. Yet her body was broken. Seeing her this way made me wonder how she hung on so long. Love.

Steve tenderly placed her body in the hole. The colored pictures went in next to her. We looked for a moment.

"We were blessed to have Cali for as long as we did," I say.

"She is the best dog," Steve says.

Everyone nods in silent agreement. The first clump of dirt drops onto her. It's startling, that first clump. The hole is filled quickly. Big rocks are placed on top. She is in a perfect spot.

How do you measure the worth of a loyal, sweet, gentle, protective, friend? Everyone loved Cali. At 35 pounds she was a small Yellow Lab, Greyhound, Chow mix. Saved from death. The runt of the litter. Given no chance to live by the Vet who gave her her first exam.

Cali was the best dog ever. She knew who was good and bad. She growled sometimes, was very good at setting boundaries but never bit one person. She showed special kindness to children. Allowed them to eat her food, take her toys and never complained. The second day after my son was born, a year ago today, I sat in the sun with him. Enjoying spring weather. Cali sniffed the new family member, wagged her tail excitedly and licked his head in a split second before I could move him. She loved every baby in our family and never showed jealousy. They were hers as much as mine.

Until a year ago, she could leap privacy fences. Her biggest joy was treeing every cat in the neighborhood and then going around to their food bowls and eating every bit while they watched helpless from above. She would come back to the house smiling.

Until three months ago she looked like a puppy. Even in her death, her face looked like an innocent puppy-faced baby. Our baby.

Smart, sweet, gentle. The best dog. Ever. I can't believe she is gone.