Evie, my love

My beautiful, sweet Evie died a year ago today.

I confess that I have always been borderline skeptical of the heightened grief around the anniversaries of death, or at least saw it as a phenomenon that one has a measure of control over--giving permission to yourself to feel the pain of loss more on one day than any other.

I feel weird. I don't remember the date that any of my grandparents died. I can't remember the date one of my high school friends died. I can't even remember without really wracking my brain the exact day that my uncle was killed (April 28th, I think, or maybe the 27th). I'll remember the date of Evie's death forever. I kept seeing it on my calendar and avoided looking at it. She's was as gone on March 18th, as she is today, but today is still so much harder.

Evie knew nothing about personal space. 

I've never written about how Evie died. About what it did to me. I've thought about it nearly every day this year, but I haven't been able to write it down. Writing it down would mean that it happened the way that it happened, that there is no going back.

This girl loved to go. Didn't care where. 

 I think I've still been in what Joan Didion famously called her year of magical thinking. I'm still bargaining. I'm still playing out scenarios in my head, where I could do something to change the outcome, to have her here. Bringing her back, like Didion wrote, is "my hidden focus, a magic trick." It's why I can't throw out the winter sweaters I made for her for our long midwestern winters. Why I have held on to the kids socks that I used to protect her dragging back leg after her Fibrocartilagenous Embolism. Why I haven't been able to leave the main Degenerative Mylopathy Facebook group. What if she needs them? What if someone has an answer--a way to reverse the progression of the disease?

Evie's face was the most grotesquely beautiful thing. 

I understand this is not rational. I also understand that my unwillingness to either let go or acknowledge Evie's remains and remnants is an unwillingness to let her go. I had my car detailed maybe 5 or 6 months ago, and I cried, because they had done such a good job that they had erased her. Evie went everywhere with me. Her hair was everywhere. Her grimy nose/tongue prints covered the inside of my front passenger window. I had not washed them off. My mother, who took care of me through the worst of my grief, did something that I just couldn't bear to do. Sentimental shit, literally. She went to the tiny back patio/world's smallest yard of my house in Visalia and removed Evie's poop, that had been accumulating for months. I still cry when I come across one of her things. A few days ago, I cried when I unwrapped a little boxer figurine that my best friend found at a yard sale and gave to me because it's tongue hung out like Evie's.

Evie posing with her likeness (Thanks, Aunt Kayla)

I was insistent at the time that I be given Evie's ashes after cremation. God knows how much I paid for it. But I can't bear to look at it, or hold it. Because it breaks the magic. If I recognize that in that box is the dust of Evie's bones and skin and fur and brain, then I recognize that she is no more. I never miss an Ash Wednesday service. It's my day to face my own mortality and the mortality of everyone I love. I need to be told to remember that I am dust, and to dust I shall return. But I still can't really face Evie's dust.

Fresh and sassy c. 2010

Just writing this, I feel sheepish. I know that she was a dog. But she wasn't just a dog. She was the near constant companion of my adult life. She was where I poured my love and affection and care and worry. She made me smile every day.  She occupied the space to my left in bed. She was a constant presence. She was part of me. Part of my identity. My love for her was the most uncomplicated thing in the world, the purest thing. There was nothing I wouldn't do for her. When she had her FCE, I walked her up and down State Street in a stroller so that she could go to work with me and did not give a fuck what anybody (my colleagues, students, strangers) thought about it. I arranged my life after her FCE so that I could always be with her. When life threw shit at me, when I was broken and tired, when I didn't know what I was going to do or where I was going to go, Evie was there.  Evie was my rock during one of the hardest transitions I've ever made in my life. She helped me get through one of the hardest years of my life this first year out in California down in the South Central Valley. As I struggled, and as I saw her decline and slow down, I knew that the one thing I couldn't possibly bear would be to lose her. And then I lost her.

Her favorite sleeping spot. 

And I think I need to tell that story now. I need to tell it so that I can let her go. And because it is the place where I feel like my life had to restart.

Barkless neighborhood watch dog. 

Degenerative Mylopathy is the canine version of ALS/Lou Gehrig's disease. It's a progressive disease of the spinal cord. Onset usually occurs between 8 and 12 years of age (Evie was 8) and typically progresses from mild ataxia and dragging of the feet to paraplegia (total loss of rear leg functions) in around 6 months, followed by front limbs, incontinence, and eventual loss of lung function and ability to swallow. It is not a painful disease, but there is no cure, no remission, and a very limited number of things that you can do to slow the progression (stem cell treatment), all of which have limited research about them and cost thousands of dollars. DM dogs almost never die naturally. You always have to make the call.

THis was Evie's classic "Mama, it is time to leave work now" face. 

It is a genetic disease. It tends to affect German Shepherds, Corgis, Boxers, Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Chesapeake Bay Retreivers, Poodles, and Pugs, as well as mixed breeds. There is a genetic test that can be performed to determine if a Dam or Sire is a carrier. Most breeders don't test, though.

Evie's case was complicated by the fact that she suffered a Fibrocartilagenous Embolism (FCE) 2 years prior to her diagnosis of DM. An FCE occurs when a fragment of fibrocartilage from the intervertebral disk breaks off and blocks the blood supply to an area of the spinal cord, which suffers tissue death. It causes paralysis in limbs controlled by that part of the spinal cord. Depending on the severity, dogs can recover over the course of weeks and months, though it is rare for a dog to make a full recovery. After several months of physical therapy, I would say that Evie made a 75% recovery, from having no use of her right leg at all, to just dragging her paw slightly while walking, and having an awkward gate. We adjusted. I made her socks to wear to protect her nails,  bought grippers for her nails to keep her from slipping on hard floors, walked around with a specialized dog stroller that she could hop in when she got too tired.

Evie's wheels and her faithful companions. 

Evie's post FCE style

In May or June of 2018, I started to notice that she was starting to slightly drag her left foot, the one not effected by the FCE. I thought maybe it was arthritis. Honestly, I knew that it could be DM, but I didn't want to think about that. It progressed so slowly from there. And Evie was slowing down in her older age in any case. We moved across the country, started a new life. I was working non-stop, and she went nearly everywhere with me. She was happy. For a glorious 3 months, she had a proper yard in my house in Fresno. When my house was burgled, we moved to Visalia to a place with an almost non-existent yard, but this also coincided with a noticeable increase in her rear leg ataxia. She found it harder to get in and out of the car, in and out of bed, on and off the couch. She had a hard time keeping her balance while riding in the car, which I fixed by setting her up with a carseat, which she loved.

Yard, glorious yard! (don't mind the brown)

By the time I mustered up the courage to take her to the vet, I already knew that it was DM. I just couldn't face it, and I knew that there was nothing to be done. I almost. feel that taking her to the vet and confirming it, facing that reality, made everything happen so much quicker. I know that's not true, but it is true that I took her to the vet, and she was gone a week later.

Had to start double wrapping to prevent injuries. 

I know this doesn't make any sense, but I almost think that Evie knew that I would be pre-grieving her loss from the moment of her diagnosis till the moment she had to be put down, so she decided just to get on with it.  Maybe she knew that my parents were flying in to visit, knew that we'd be spending the week with my sister.  Maybe she knew that she needed to die while I was being held by my family. I don't know. When my dad left to go back home a few days before she died, I told him that I was worried that it might happen sooner rather than later. I remember telling my mom that I thought he needed to say goodbye. I thought I was being overly dramatic, but I guess I knew too. Then she stopped eating.

One of Grandfather's last snuggles

The morning of March 17th, I threw out my back badly. I could barely walk. I left work early, canceled my trip back to Visalia, and came home to a dog who had suddenly lost almost all function in her back legs. She fell again and again. We used a towel to help her move outside to pee. My heart was breaking into a million pieces. She kept looking at me, like, "Mama, what is happening?" I didn't know.

We managed to get onto the big futon in Shosha's living room. And I almost knew then that she would never leave it again. She didn't.  I held her for half the night, drifting in and out of sleep. At around 1am, I felt her go rigid in her front legs, and she had this wild-eyed look on her face and was breathing so hard and trembling. She finally calmed, but then woke again with the same symptoms. I remember Shosha coming out to pee, while she was having an episode. I can't remember how many times it happened, but I remember Shosha coming into bed with us.

By morning, she couldn't move much at all. Every time she tried, she would get this panicked look on her face that fucking tore my insides in two. At one point, she looked me straight in the eye and told me that it was time. I thought it would be so hard to make that decision. I thought it would be clouded with uncertainty. But it wasn't.

Grandmother loved her best of all.

The hardest part was telling my mom, who loved Evie as much as I did, maybe more. I need to say two words. "It's time" And I almost couldn't get them out.

But I couldn't make the call myself. I already knew that when the time came, I would pay whatever it took to have someone come to her, instead of taking her into the vet. I knew that I needed to hold her and feel the life leave her body. I needed to tell her all the things without worrying who was watching. But I couldn't physically say the words.

Shosha did it for me. It took her a long time, but she found someone who would come out at 2. For legal reasons, I suppose, they require the owner to give verbal consent before charging the card and sending someone out. All I had to say was "yes." It was all I could say.

We had another 3 hours together. We took turns holding her, talking to her, imagining what the end would be like. But I found this weird sense of peace. I didn't want her to feel my anguish. I didn't want her last hours to be anything but love. I had second thoughts, but they were fleeting. At one point my mom, choking through tears, said, "I don't know how or why, but I think she's dying now." And she was. Her breathing became rough and she stopped responding to much. She seemed to be having some trouble swallowing. I remember thinking or maybe saying that I didn't know if she was going to make it until the vet arrived.

Surrounded by love. 

But she held on for the Angel of Mercy. I can't remember her name now. I'm not sure I every got a good look at her face. I do know that she was so kind and gentle and reassuring. I remember her sitting beside me as I laid beside Evie, and for the first time in hours, Evie stirred, and scootched over to her and put her head in her lap, and it nearly killed me. Evie knew.

Mostly everything is a blur. I know she took some paw prints. I know she put towels and puppy pads under us. I know it took forever for her to get the IV line in. I know that Mama was holding her and I had my arms around her and was looking into her eyes.


I know that at some point, I asked my mother to read the poem that I had chosen, the one I wanted or needed us all to have in our hearts when we did this terrible deed. Looking back, I wonder if it was cruel to ask her to do it. Mary Oliver, of course. Who else?

At Blackwater Pond

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders

of the ponds,
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

Mama's last snuggle.

When the sedative hit her, she started panting really hard, and I got scared. She was panting like she'd just been out for a run on a hot August day, and I was worried that she was in pain or maybe that she was getting a miraculous second wind. But the vet told me that this was normal, and then I watched her eyes get droopy and heavy and she became soft again. Her eyes shut. I held her face in my hands and thanked her. And I told her I was going to be okay, even though I didn't know if it was true. And that she was the best dog in the entire world. And that I loved her. And that I was sorry.

I remember not knowing the moment she was gone. That it came as a surprise when the vet said, "She's gone." I didn't quite believe her. Evie was so soft and warm, and her tongue was so pink and leathery and beautiful cascading down over her teeth like they always did.

I've always been scared of death in its corporeal form. I remember as a child screaming and panicking when coming near a dead rabbit on our street. I remember being haunted and horrified at open casket funerals. I remember when our first boxer, Cocoa, died, when I was in my early 20s, I was afraid to touch her body. I wasn't afraid of Evie's body. I just found it confusing. Was it Evie or was it not anymore?

I knew that I couldn't watch them take her off that futon and take her away.  I wanted my last memory of her to be holding her as she left, not the awkward hoist of her body onto stretcher and into someone else's car. So I thanked the Angel of Mercy and retreated to Shosha's room. When Shosha came back, I saw what this had done to her too. I remember her saying: "8 years is not long enough." Her boxer, our beloved Ialli, had been lost at 8 too. Lost for days and then found on the side of the highway, dead. The pain and anguish of that moment feels more distant now, but still excruciating. Seeing how we were able to love and hold and pet Evie into the hereafter must have been so hard, when we had not been able to give that death to Ialli. I don't know if it wounded or healed, maybe both. We both just sobbed for a long time.

Love at first snuggle

I remember coming back out and not being able to look at the futon. I remember my mom going into the bedroom to tell my dad that she was gone, and hearing his and her choking sobs, and joining them from the outside.
I'm not a stranger to grief or to emotional pain. But the pain I felt in the days and weeks after Evie's death was unlike anything I've ever experienced.  I didn't know if it was possible to hurt this much and not die. Grief hurts. The constricted throat, the gasping for breath, the soreness in the neck and abdomen--the feeling of emptiness that seems to have no bottom.

This is Evie's heaven. 

Ever since I was a kid, I would have these crying dreams, where I would wander around in public gatherings just sobbing from the depths of my soul.  Every time I would master the sobbing, I would experience another wave. I would wake up fragile and teary-eyed, shaken but somehow relieved.

One of her last rides through the South Valley

After Evie died, my crying dream was my waking reality. Not cute sniffles and glassy-eyed looks. Ugly keening. Open-mouthed wailing. Violent sobs that morphed into wretching. And there was nothing I could do to stop it. No amount of cajoling or comfort would relieve it. There was no denying it. It came in waves like birth pains, predictable but unstoppable.

Take me with you?

I'm going to be honest, there were times, particularly in that first week--and I'm not exaggerating--where I thought I might die. I wasn't suicidal. I just didn't understand how to live with the hurting that I seemed to be completely unable to control. There were moments where I wanted to die so that it would stop, so that I wouldn't have to face my reality. I'm embarrassed to say that, but there were moments when that was the truth.

Sisters forever.

I remember having to write texts to all the people in my life who loved Evie. I remember having to talk to my dearest Henry, who had been Evie's favorite boy since they were both puppies together. I remember his broken cries on the phone, and he said, "I just wish that she was still alive."

A dog and her boy

Probably watching Shaun the SHeep

Henry and Evie naps

Hugs on hugs on hugs

I can't remember when it got easier. When I could reliably go out in public again. My mother stayed with me for weeks, I think, poor thing. She didn't need Evie like I needed Evie, but she loved her every bit as much as I did. I'm usually a top-notch empath, and will take someone else's pain and add it to mine to feel them both, but I simply had no room until later to understand what that time must have been like for her.  I do know that it was not until I made a soft inquiries into a puppy that I started to feel hope again.

Despite several well-shared articles like this one about how the loss of a beloved pet can be as hard or sometimes harder than that of a close friend or relative, it is still not really socially acceptable to have an extended mourning over a pet. We are a grief-avoidant society to begin with. We don't want to see it or feel it. We admire graveside stoicism and admonish loud anguish. We no longer wear visible markers of our mourning or expect others to accommodate grief. We might wear muted colors to a funeral and bring food by, but there is no culture of grief.  What rituals and markers we do allow people are species specific.

Evie's first and last collar

I still feel like a real white lady with white lady problems writing this post, admitting to being broken clean in two by the death of my dog, but I'm also just trying to be more honest.  Shame is a feeling, a terrible, full-bodied feeling, but I so often have shame about other feelings that I have.

Free digging

Eradicating shame from your life is really really hard, but I'm starting the process by trying to let myself feel what I feel.  And I feel like Evie was the greatest and truest and purest and simplest love I've ever had. And I miss her with my whole body. And I need to let her go.

Run free, my love.