My Dog Died and You Really Do Care

Part One: Losing Codee

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When my dog, Codee April, passed away in early September, I didn’t tell anyone about it. I honestly thought no one would care. I even subconsciously believed that people might mock me for so deeply grieving a dog. But after much tribulation, I discovered that not only do people care, but they care a lot, and that a necessary part of grieving for me is to let people know.

In the spring of 2009, my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter and I went to the animal shelter to look for a dog.

Our dog, Kelev, had passed away 6 months earlier. Kelev had been my canine companion since after college, through all my travels from New York to Washington to Alaska to New Mexico, he had been by my side. He had a rough life as the runt of the litter who suffered through giardia, paralysis from being hit by a car (which he recovered from on his own), two hip surgeries and a replaced ACL. He died at only 11 years old, and I was devastated by his loss. I was traveling out of the country at the time and had left him with a trusted friend who had cared for him many times before. However, on this occasion some poor decisions were made and I had to let go of him over the phone while she took him to get euthanized. This had been one of my biggest life regrets.

I was only able to go a few months before I felt the deep desire for another dog companion.

At the animal shelter, my toddler daughter, Flora, and I walked around, peeping into cages and searching for dogs with friendly eyes. I have an affection for collies and their long-haired, multi-colored, medium-sized, mutt brethren. I also avoid puppies because, as cute as they are, they are too much work. We told the helpers at the shelter, which dogs appealed to us. Of the ones we chose, I was told that we could only visit with one of them. Only one of them was gentle enough for a toddler. Her name was April because she was found in April. She was a redhead like us.

April and Flora played together in the fenced yard at the shelter. April was mostly timid, but entirely sweet. Her coat was covered in burrs because she was new to the shelter, and they had yet to brush her. She was found on the street. She had a mysterious scar on her cheek. They guessed she was about 1 and a half years old, exactly one year older than Flora.

“We’ll take her!” I said. But they required us to foster her first. The one rule of fostering a dog was to never ever let them off the leash. On the way back to our mountain home, I asked Flora what we should name her. In the slurred dialect of a toddler, she mumbled a word that resembled Cody. “Cody,” I said, “that’s a solid name.” Flora repeated with more confidence, “Cody.” I knew it might be confusing since she was a female and Cody is often associated with males, so I changed the spelling to Codee and we called her Codee April.

On the second day of our fostering responsibilities, Eric accidentally opened the front door before putting Codee on the leash. With unmatchable speed, Codee flew off across the vast green pastures of our rural neighborhood and disappeared.

I cried. A lot. I was so worried about her being off on her own, feeling lost and confused. And perhaps I was releasing some of the resonant grief from my loss of Kelev. I felt like we were the worst doggie parents ever. We called the shelter and waited.

I remember digging in my garden. I was digging and crying and praying. I desperately wanted to reunite with Codee and make sure she was okay. That’s when our neighbor, Lena, ran over to me and said, “The dog, the dog, she’s in the field!”

“What?” was my idiotic response.

“The dog is in the field. Come look!”

I went with her along the road, a few houses down, past the barking dogs, to a nearby field. And there she was. Sitting in the middle of the green meadow looking right at me as if she were waiting for me. I very slowly climbed between the fences and crept toward her. I was so concerned about scaring her off that I nearly crawled toward her. “Good girl,” I chanted, “good girl.” She lowered down to her belly as if to say, “It’s okay, I’ll stay right here.”

I reached for her collar and guided her back home and onto a leash. But I never had to worry again about her running off. We set her free and she came back. She ran wild and saw all the freedom the forests had to offer, but in the end, she chose us. She belonged to us, and we belonged to her.

Codee was nearly 16 years old when she passed away, just a couple months shy of what we believed to be her 16^th birthday. Eighteen months earlier, Codee had a one-time seizure that caused a kind of dazed dementia and after that she would snap at us if we tried to pet her. This was hard on our family. Codee had always been incredibly affectionate. Eric had read somewhere that dogs don’t like hugs, and it became an ongoing joke every time Codee nuzzled up to our necks for a hug. Eventually, we had learned how to touch her again in a way she would accept. It had taken about a year. It took Flora even longer to trust Codee again not to snap at her.

Six months ago, Codee started having a difficult time standing up and sitting down, so we put her on anti-inflammatory pain medication. During that time, we were able to take her on one last family backpacking excursion, a flat three-mile hike-in along a creek, just her speed. In July, she hurt her leg, probably trying to jump over some of the construction in the yard. She no longer wanted to go on any hikes after that. Over Labor Day weekend, we took her on a camping trip with friends, both human and doggie friends. She stopped eating dog food and would only nibble at cold cuts. She only walked a few yards before laying down again. Her breathing became exacerbated. We placed her on the bank of Elk Creek and let her lavishly lap up the current, bathing in the cold waters. We brought her home on Monday and she died on Wednesday.

Over the course of those 48 hours, I was in agony over what to do. I searched the internet for answers. I called the vet. I spoke to friends who had lost old dogs. But no one had a definitive answer for me. We would have to figure it out on our own. I only knew one thing for sure; I did not want to euthanize her. I mean, I would have, if I had to. I got the name of someone who would come to our house, so we could all be there together where she felt comfortable. But after what had happened to Kelev, the way his regretful death weighed on me, I really wanted to give her a chance to die on her own terms.

I kept running this moral question around in my head. How come we euthanize pets? We don’t euthanize humans. Why do we decide when it is their time to go? I could not bear the idea that I would have to make that decision. Perhaps it was cowardly of me, but I knew that I wanted her to pass away on her own terms. Just like Codee chose us on her own terms to come back to us that day over 14 years ago. She could have lived off rodents (she was a great hunter) in the forest or found a new family to care for her. But she chose to come back to us. I wanted her to also choose her own death.

Her condition was worsening rapidly. She started making noises, not quite a bark, not quite a whine. I learned during all this that dogs are biologically programmed not to show pain. We assume this is to avoid being culled from the pack, but some have suggested to me that this is because they don’t want us to worry about them. Either way, not being able to tell how much pain she was in added another challenge to our decision making. The vet said that if she was not eating, she would be in a lot of pain. We decided to ask the vet for pain relief medication and then figure out our next steps from there.

I cancelled my plans in order to stay home with Codee while Eric went to pick up the meds. He didn’t get very far though. Within minutes, she began convulsing. Her tongue hung out of her mouth. Her eyes dulled. I laid down beside her on the floor as I did so many times before when she would rest her paw on my shoulder and look into my eyes. But this time her eyes were empty. I played a song that I had been singing to her for the last year while brushing her fur. She was completely deaf by then, but I always felt like she recognized the tune somehow when it was on.

Loosen, loosen, baby.

                                                                                                                  Holy Breath

You don’t have to carry.

                                                                                                                   And Holy Name

The weight of the world on your muscles and bones.

                                                                                                                  Help me ease

Let go, let go, let go.

                                                                                                                   Help me ease this pain.

And I sang between heaving tears until she took her last breath. “I’m sorry,” I chanted while petting her head, “I love you. I’m sorry.” Did she know? Did she know how much I loved her? I felt so much regret. I thought there would be more time. I regretted that I didn’t shower her with constant love. I regretted that she was in pain. I regretted that I didn’t say I love you a million times and appreciate her a million times more.

I texted Eric.

Me: I think she died. Come back.

Eric: Okay.

Me: I’m sorry I sent you away.

Eric: That’s okay. I love you and I love fuzzy wiggles.

We picked up two shovels and began digging. I wanted to keep singing. I had read in Martin Prechtel’s book, The Smell of Rain on Dust, that one must sing spirits home. I took this to heart. We waited for Flora to come home from school. At Codee’s graveside, we told the story of Codee, and I sang more. Three neighborhood dogs came by and barked. A raven flew over our heads. I felt deeply her presence there. The sun set over her grave on the western rim of our yard and the finches and butterflies visited.

I knew then that the Earth would miss her too. The Earth was better off with her on it and now she was gone. I knew then that she had a relationship with all the nature beings, and I regretted not realizing it before. She had relationships with the sagebrush, hummingbirds, and dogs, the raspberry bush and the plum tree, with the house and the stones, tarantula hawks and sunflowers, mountains and sky. They all missed her. She was a part of their community too. The Earth would miss her steps upon it.

That’s when the real grieving began.

Read Part Two here.