That’s what I kept telling myself these past 14 years. I sometimes even threw in the word “just” before “a.” I always prefaced that comment or thought with a “Don’t get me wrong, I love my dog” but, still, whenever we were thinking about the kind of place we were boarding her or thinking about a surgery that would be crazy expensive or thinking about her as having human qualities, I’d remind myself, she’s a dog.
But as I sat on the cold emergency animal hospital floor early Sunday morning with my dog lying by my side and nodded to the veterinarian to start the process of “putting our dog down,” I realized, she was, indeed, more than a dog. She was Stella. The vet kindly and carefully did a test to make sure that the medicine would flow quickly and easily. She then gave Stella a light sedative and this sweet friend gently lay her head next to my leg, her weight feeling more heavy against me. The vet said some more kind words–I really can’t remember, something about her being a dog that was clearly well loved–and then gave her the medicine that would end her life. Stella died quietly, softly, which weren’t words that we would typically use to describe this creature who had boundless energy and had such an enormous impact on our lives.
Though her health had been faltering a bit these last few weeks, this whole thing came so suddenly. She was exhibiting very un-Stella-like behavior the last few days and when my wife took her into the pet hospital on Saturday night, it was clear that her time with us was nearing an end. It was about 10 pm when I went up to wake our kids up. Anne would bring Stella home one last time so that the kids could say good-bye and then I would take Stella back to the hospital.
Stella stayed in our mini-van outside our garage and the kids came running out, crying, and yelling her name. They hurried to get the backseat to surround her with hugs and tears. Our son asked a good question, “What will happen?” Anne thought he meant what the procedure would be like and tried to explain it in a way that an 8-year-old would understand, but that’s not what Ethan meant.
“No, what will happen to us?”
What will happen to us, indeed. Our pattern of life has changed so radically now. We were used to the walks, the feedings, the giving her a kong with cheap peanut butter in the morning, the tail wagging when any of us came home. She was ingrained into our daily lives. In a sense, we have a new normal and none of us likes the prospect of that.
The thing that hits me, though, as I reflect on all of the memories is not just that we’ll miss Stella (which we will, of course), but what Stella represents. She was born in February of 1999 and we got her from a shelter the following October. She represents a huge chunk of our marriage. She represents living in Brookfield and Riverside and Highland Park and Chicago. She represents the pain we had in trying to have children and the joy we had in finally making that happen. She represents Anne’s mother dying of cancer. She represents Christmases, vacations, and “normal” life at home. Fourteen years is a helluva long time, filled with so many memories, both remembered and forgotten.
What will happen to us? We will continue to cry and share funny stories. We will continue to include her in our evening prayers when we list the members of our family for whom we are thankful (“I’m thankful for mom, dad, Ethan, and Stella”). None of us have talked about getting another dog because, and I know this is a commonly held feeling, it’s just too painful to think about. We may one day. But not now.
She was a dog. A dog that sometimes made us yell and cringe, yes, but a dog that set up a home in our lives and hearts. We will miss this dog greatly. And we will be thankful for her place in our family.