Me and My Shadow, one more time

June 5, 2024

Oops! I was wrong. I thought I got puppy Shadow in 2009, but it was 2011. So he was “only” 15 when he died. Even so, I realized last night, with a laugh, that he is the longest primary relationship in my entire life. (My husband Jeff, 12 years.)

I discovered my mistake when I decided to go back through my exopermaculture.com site and search for “Shadow.” Ommigod. There are probably 40 posts there through the years (I began that daily blog earlier in 2011), most of them detailing daily walks and hikes with the one I always called “puppy Shadow.”

So many memories! Even without looking back through all those old posts. Here’s the first one I put up, about how and why he appeared in my life only three weeks after my three-year-old dog Emma was run over by a silent Prius.

Me and my Shadow . . .

And here’s one of the first pictures I took of his little self, so happy!

Here’s the ebook I put up about losing Emma. I’ll do another one about losing Shadow. This is how I process grief, by writing it all down.

LOSING EMMA. pdf

 

Puppy Shadow’s Final Morning . . .

June 4, 2024

 

Wow. Way sooner than I expected . . .

17-year-old puppy Shadow started coughing late yesterday afternoon, and from then on, 75% of the time each breath he tried to take was a cough. I was up with him most of the night, trying to help any way I could, and it was clear he needed me to do so, desperately; but nothing I did made any difference. Not putting him on the bed with me, not letting him outside (four times), not trying to rock him on my lap in the rocking chair. Just cough, cough, cough, followed by, at times, a huge gag. As if there was something in there and he was trying to get it out. By morning I knew that I was done. That I could not, at age 81, endure another night of incessant coughing; nor could he. I began to put my mind to the idea that I needed to take him in to our regular vet, and have him “put down,” as they say.

Of course it was difficult. And he knew something was up, could sense that I was in a mood never before encountered in his 15 years at my side, my little shadow. His response was to be restless, nervous, even trembly, scared, I’d say. And meanwhile, cough cough cough with every single breath, for 20 minutes at a time, or 30, or a whole hour . . .

Called the vet at 8:30. Dr. Medlock, a very caring soul, was able to see us at 11:30.

Diagnosis was uncertain: possibly, a collapsing trachea; but there were other alternatives, which would require testing, and likely, ongoing medication. I did not wish to go that route, and told him so. Told him that I personally did not want to go that route either, try to keep myself alive beyond when it was clearly time to go. He agreed; says he feels the same about his own life.

The experience of being with my dearest companion animal while he was euthanized felt like a sacred ceremony. I held him while first saline was injected into the preset port, then anesthesia, then, finally, a deliberately fatal dose of a morphine-like substance. With anesthesia, his trembly little body gradually quieted; with the killer drug, his body went utterly limp. It was over. His eyes were still open. But unseeing. The soul of little Shadow was no longer at home in his aged body.

I wrapped his body in a blanket I brought from home, and carried the bundle to the car, Dr. Medlock following with my purse, glasses and keys.

Then, several hours later, Adam, Marita and I buried little Shadow in the garden, wrapped in the garment I wore home from the hospital, when I broke my wrist a few short months ago.

Let the grieving begin.