By Rhona Canoy
SO... We lost a member of our fur family on Monday. Because this is my column, you are going to have to read about her or skip this part of the OpEd page altogether. For those of us who have a true relationship with our furbabies, this is losing one of my children.
The process of grieving, whether for a loved two-legged being or a furry four-legged one, is as real as real can be. It’s sad and heartbreaking. There’s a part of me that knows it was her time because she was old, for a dog. Fifteen years old. That’s about 75 human years. She suddenly got sick and began to suffer digestive failure. But somehow, like all loved beings, we always hope that she would pull through and give us a little more time.
Kit Kitty was the runt of the litter. And because of this, she was always a bit leery when surrounded by the rest of the pack. But this also made her independent. She was fearless, going up against large dogs, not realizing that she was only as big as a large cat. She would wander off after her evening meal, to sit at the second floor foyer of the school building across the field from our house. We could hear her bark when a wayward cat or dog would enter the property at night to scrounge for food in the garbage bins.
Her feistiness served her well. She would end up being bruised and bloodied after fights with the other females during heat season. Did you know that girl dogs will fight each other aggressively over a male dog’s attention when they are at the height of estrus? Kind of like some human females I’ve seen. I always worried that she would end up getting killed, but I guess the others could sense how scrappy she was.
Cages were something she hated. Every time she had to spend a night or two at the vet’s, she would have severe anxiety attacks and nibble off all the hair on whatever part of her body she could reach. She always came home with bald patches, some so bad that we needed to put antiseptic cream on it. After a while, we realized that it was doing her more harm than good to spend time in a cage at the vet, so I learned to become a fair-to-middling animal nurse.
Giving dogs medicine can be a struggle if you don’t develop a technique. You have to know just how far down their throat to jam the pill, and reassure them by gently stroking their throats to help them swallow. Then bribing them with a little treat afterwards. Kit Kitty was a carbo loader. She loved bread. She REALLY loved bread. She could smell a newly opened bag of fresh bread in the morning from wherever she was. Her little nose would suddenly appear by my elbow at the dining table, and she would scratch at my arm until she was given a piece. And another. And another. Given a chance, she could demolish half a loaf.
If she decided to spend the night indoors, then it was either raining or she wasn’t feeling well. The caninevhierarchy in our house is clearly defined. All the dogs except one own my brother. We used to have thirteen, but they’ve slowly gone over the rainbow bridge (yes, that’s how dog people refer to their passing), and now we have five left. One of these is mine, meaning I staked claim over her when she was born. The rest know that they own my brother. But that I’m the health care provider seems clear to them. They will troop to my room and nestle in bed with me when they don’t feel well. And I know it’s time to take them to the doctor.
All the dogs that have come into my life have filled me with joy. They give me unconditional love, relationship headaches when they don’t get along. They can be quite demanding--sitting across from me with those big, pleading eyes when I’m trying to eat my burger in peace. If we found ourselves on a desert island, my dogs know they would get the better part of the meal and that the smaller share is mine. You would think I would have lost enough weight by now. But, no.
I was there when Kit Kitty took her last breath. I’m glad she knew she wasn’t alone. She weakly wagged her little tail and nestled her cheek in my palm. She twitched a couple of times, and then she was gone. She lies under our backyard tambis tree now, beside her mother and two other members of our fur family.
Fifteen years was a long time. And she will be missed. And I will surely miss her more than some humans I knew who have passed. But I’m grateful for her time with us. She made me feel less alone. Something people can’t seem to do. I hope she’ll be waiting for me when I cross that bridge. What a grand reunion it will be.
