Millie was an intense, insistent, expert cuddler. I know some people who spent the night with her found it to be too much, since you really could not escape without throwing her out of the room. But I always loved it, and it is one of the things I miss most viscerally.
Millie and I spooned most nights; it was our preferred cuddling format. She would often doze on top of the covers at first while I laid on my back reading. But when the lights went out and I laid on my side to sleep, she would come up to my head. Since she had no snout, she couldn't effectively nuzzle her way under the covers, so I would lift them up and she would make her way down to the curve between my stomach and my legs. She would usually sleep with her head on my elbow (my arm bent with my hand at my pillow), or with her head in the curve between my ribcage and my hips.
But that wasn't the full extent of spooning with Millie. Sometimes in the night I would roll over to sleep on my other side, and Millie would then adjust her position. She would move up and snuggle high on my back and then sleep with her head draped over my neck. This was my favorite. I loved to hear/feel her swallows (if you spend time with happy, relaxed dogs, you know about this kind of contented swallowing) followed by her soft snoring. Sometimes her rough feet and toenails against my back were a bit scratchy, but the rest of her body was so soft and snuggly that, with just a few adjustments, I felt deeply loved and perfectly comfortable.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
The grass is always greener, even in grief.
All of the books I've read so far about grieving for a pet include a section or chapter on dealing with feelings associated with having to put your pet to sleep. I know people who have had horrible, traumatic experiences with the decision to put a pet to sleep or with the process itself. I don't mean to suggest that it is easy or preferable.
Still, that is how I always envisioned Millie's death. It is how the vast majority of my family's pets have passed. I always thought that at some point Millie would eat something that would make her irrecoverably sick, or that she would develop some other irrecoverable condition naturally, and that I would be faced with that dreaded decision. But I always thought that the choice would be clear, since it always has been in my experience. That clarity, knowing that you are truly giving your dear friend a gift, the gift of relief, of peace, is sometimes the only comfort there is. This was certainly the case with Buttercup.
When you have the opportunity to put a pet to sleep,I think the death itself is less shocking; you know it is imminent before it happens. You can see it coming, you can say goodbye, even if only in the last hours or even minutes. Honestly, I am jealous of those who have this precious opportunity. Millie's death was so shocking. It was like a blast from a cannon that blew me into another world. A terrible, shitty, stupid world of heartache.
Secondly, when you put a pet to sleep, you have the choice to be present at the moment of death. This, I know, is traumatic sometimes. I suspect that it would have been very difficult with Millie, because I suspect she would have fought the sedation. Still, I think one factor that has made this loss so painful is the sense of distance I have between myself and Millie in her final moments. I had no idea at all that she was gone until many many hours afterward. In fact, because she passed in the middle of the night, completely alone, I have no idea exactly what time she died, or even what day! Because Mom was with Buttercup in her final moments, we know Buttercup's death was peaceful, that she welcomed that gift of peace at last. But because I was not with Millie when she died--because no one witnessed her final minutes--I have no idea what those minutes were like. Was she scared? Did she struggle? Did she lack comfort she needed? Was it fast, or was it a long, painful process? I have no way to answer these questions. So there is no comfort to be had here.
Lastly, if you have the opportunity to make the choice to put your pet to sleep, if you witness their passing, then I suspect their passing is at least slightly more real. When I got the news that Millie had died, I knew that it was absolutely critical that I see her body. I knew that seeing her that way would be horrible, but I also knew that if I did not, her death would never ever be real to me. It also gave me a chance to say goodbye, even an obscenely late goodbye. But nonetheless, for a week or so, my heart knew only that she was gone. I knew not that she was dead, but that she was out there somewhere. Alone. This was unbearable. I don't know how I faced life with the sense that my sweet baby girl was alone. I don't think I would have had that sense if I had been with her in her final moments.
Still, that is how I always envisioned Millie's death. It is how the vast majority of my family's pets have passed. I always thought that at some point Millie would eat something that would make her irrecoverably sick, or that she would develop some other irrecoverable condition naturally, and that I would be faced with that dreaded decision. But I always thought that the choice would be clear, since it always has been in my experience. That clarity, knowing that you are truly giving your dear friend a gift, the gift of relief, of peace, is sometimes the only comfort there is. This was certainly the case with Buttercup.
When you have the opportunity to put a pet to sleep,I think the death itself is less shocking; you know it is imminent before it happens. You can see it coming, you can say goodbye, even if only in the last hours or even minutes. Honestly, I am jealous of those who have this precious opportunity. Millie's death was so shocking. It was like a blast from a cannon that blew me into another world. A terrible, shitty, stupid world of heartache.
Secondly, when you put a pet to sleep, you have the choice to be present at the moment of death. This, I know, is traumatic sometimes. I suspect that it would have been very difficult with Millie, because I suspect she would have fought the sedation. Still, I think one factor that has made this loss so painful is the sense of distance I have between myself and Millie in her final moments. I had no idea at all that she was gone until many many hours afterward. In fact, because she passed in the middle of the night, completely alone, I have no idea exactly what time she died, or even what day! Because Mom was with Buttercup in her final moments, we know Buttercup's death was peaceful, that she welcomed that gift of peace at last. But because I was not with Millie when she died--because no one witnessed her final minutes--I have no idea what those minutes were like. Was she scared? Did she struggle? Did she lack comfort she needed? Was it fast, or was it a long, painful process? I have no way to answer these questions. So there is no comfort to be had here.
Lastly, if you have the opportunity to make the choice to put your pet to sleep, if you witness their passing, then I suspect their passing is at least slightly more real. When I got the news that Millie had died, I knew that it was absolutely critical that I see her body. I knew that seeing her that way would be horrible, but I also knew that if I did not, her death would never ever be real to me. It also gave me a chance to say goodbye, even an obscenely late goodbye. But nonetheless, for a week or so, my heart knew only that she was gone. I knew not that she was dead, but that she was out there somewhere. Alone. This was unbearable. I don't know how I faced life with the sense that my sweet baby girl was alone. I don't think I would have had that sense if I had been with her in her final moments.
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