Losing Lilly.
To my dog:
I picked up your ashes today.
I was careful not to park in the same spot…the one where only 5 days earlier I had pulled in late at night, panicked that your labored breathing meant the end was coming much too soon. They met us at the car with a stretcher, but it was my voice that coaxed you out and I watched as you timidly stepped to the ground. You were weak, and we both shook in fear.
And it was my voice that carried you down the hall, where they took your pink leash, faded from the sun, and led you into an exam room. I was directed to the consult room, paperwork on a clipboard, a clicking pen, choices to be made. It was an agonizing 15 minutes before I saw you again, this time with an IV drip taped to your right front leg. Red tubing.
The adrenaline had kicked in, and for a moment, there was a glimpse of the goofy you. You reached for me, and with my fingers, I scooped globs of peanut butter out of a jar they placed next to the Hershey kisses. You went on to gobble the specially made warm stew, and I pleaded “How do I know?” I was promised 3 months. It had been 13 days.
There was a test – we could check for fluid in your belly – and for another excruciating 15 minutes, I waited, and I prayed. I paced circles in that stupid comfort room, hating the sterile faux leather chairs, and I prayed to a God I’m not sure exists. When the vet came through the door and you padded over to me with that “You’re gonna be OK Mom look,” I knew. The fluid told us the cancer had burst and there was internal bleeding. There was pain. It was time.
I fed you two Hershey kisses and you glanced at me with a smirk, as if I had been holding out all these years. I stroked your head and scratched your soft ears, and I watched as the peace settled over you. We huddled together, and as you looked up at me with those big brown eyes, I whispered it was OK to go…that I would be OK.
For those who have loved a dog, there is an inexplicable connection – a bond that transcends even the most extraordinary human love. We make a deliberate choice to experience an unfathomable grief in exchange for a love so unconditional it makes us weep with joy. From the warm paws to wet kisses, our desire for this love is so strong that it outweighs our fear of suffering the loss. Each time, we gamble we’ll beat the odds. We never do.
It’s hard to be angry at anything called “The Rainbow Bridge.” I picture a wooded path, lined with toys and treats, leading to a river crossing bathed in sparking, warm sunlight. There are furry best friends on the other side.
Lilly and I shared so many adventures and journeys…but the trip across that bridge is one she took without me. I promised her no pain, and that my heartbreaking desire for her to stay would not be stronger than her need to go. On February 6, 2024, she died in my arms at 11:32pm.
Together, we walked and hiked almost 20,000 miles in 10 years. And while I know our time was cut painfully short, we loved hard during that time together…and I would do it all over again. Thank you for the happiest of trails and for being the bestest girl.
Lessons from Lilly:
If you dig a little deeper, you’ll find the best bones.
If there’s no time to play, success means nothing.
Walk away if it doesn’t pass the sniff test.
Treats can be enjoyed at any time of day.
Not every ball has to be chased. Sometimes they land where you’re not supposed to go.
When in doubt, sit quietly. Someone will eventually come pat you on the head.
Love again. Repeat.
Rest in peace, Ms. Lilly Tuukka puppers. You are profoundly missed. February 26, 2014 - February 6, 2024.
