Our Texas summer has come and gone. In like a hot, tired, lamb, out like a lion named IKE.
Looking back, this summer in the world at large was chock-full of “real news”, while on a personal level, little was noteworthy with a couple of exceptions.
The most important happening in our life was the death of our Hazel, beloved dog and faithful friend of twelve years. Back when Farm Girl was three, her heart was set on having a dog. One weekend, while she was staying with her grandparents, we answered an advertisement in the local paper for a free dog. We called the number given, and her owners invited us to come and meet Hazel.
Upon our arrival, we found a two story house, slightly untidy, decidedly chaotic, it’s back yard a dirt postage stamp presided over by a large Doberman pinscher. Hazel, no relation to it, 25 pounds of black fur and unbridled energy, came flying down the stairs followed by a ferret. She had a nasty gash on one ear that oozed blood as we spent a few minutes petting her, and her owners apologetically explained that the back yard brute didn’t like her much. That settled it. She was to be ours. As we headed out to the car, she came with us without the benefit of a leash, jumped onto my lap, and never looked back as we sped home. The rest, they say, is history.
That ear healed, but a nasty scar would remain to remind us of her former life and our great good fortune in finding her that day. Over the years, as a treasured member of the family, she steadfastly loved and protected us. Traveling by car was one of her favorite things. If there was an open car door, she was first in, and would bed down on the floor on the passenger side, prepared to ride for as long as we felt like driving. She has played in snow, paddled in cool lakes, walked on white sand beaches, hiked mountains, chased cats, and slept in peace in our home. We taught her to sing, and to fetch, but we never could get “come” or “stay” down. Going to Miss Carolyn’s kennel was a delight for Hazel as well. Miss Carolyn gave her the run of the place, and Hazel took this as her due. Oh, how she wiggled to get in the door, but how long and deeply she slept when she came home at the end of a stay! She knew and loved our extended family, and welcomed their visits. She liked to go to bed when we did, and if we stayed up late, she would coldly leave the room, clearly disappointed in us for breaking curfew, to retire in solitude. Periodically we tried introducing other dogs into the family as playmates for her, but only after several failed attempts, and in this last year, with the arrival of Archie, did she get to know and enjoy one of her own species.
The last several years brought the inevitable signs of aging. Her eyes clouded, her muzzle grayed, and her hearing diminished. Hazel's life was winding down. She began to have seizures, and difficulty getting up and down the stairs. Often she seemed in pain when trying to lay down on her bed. Yet in the midst of this, she would break in to one of her famed “running fits” , and with equal enthusiasm chase her tennis ball. We would talk tentatively about what we considered acceptable bad health, and at what point we would have to face that she no longer had any quality of life. But we always delayed giving up and giving her up.
Then we found a lump, and a veterinary visit confirmed that she had cancer. We were told that surgery oftentimes accelerated this type of cancer. We opted to monitor her carefully, not subject her to invasive surgery, and let her live out her final days at home. Months went by, the tumor receded and we dared to hope for a time, but the veterinarian explained that the cancer was not gone. She began to slowly lose weight and energy. Finally, her appetite diminished, and she was unable to get outside to relieve herself.
We looked online to see if there was a humane way we could put her down ourselves here at home. There are some philosophical arguments about letting your pets die where they have been happiest. Beware if you ever decide to look into this. There are a lot of misguided animal rights folks out there ready to call you every conceivable name for choosing to mercifully end the life of your suffering animal. Our view was that her ability to function (eating, defecating, moving) had ceased, and because domesticated, she would not go off to the woods to lay down, starve and die. We found no acceptable at-home solution without access to prescription drugs, so we called our vet and took her in.
She settled in on the floor of the van at our feet, and all the way there I wished we could somehow keep driving forever, or at least until she closed her eyes and died. We expected the vet to agree to end her life that day, and he did. He explained how he would administer a drug that would stop her heart, and how that worked. He explained that sometimes when the heart stops, the dog gives a bark or yelp, but it is reflex, not pain, and we chose to believe him. It was thankfully fast but horribly fast. One moment she was there with us, sick and dazed, then the promised soft yelp, and she had died. Twelve years, and now this good dog, gone.
We cried over her for a long time, cleaned her up, wrapped her in a towel and brought her home to bury. We noticed in death the relaxation that had been gone from her frame for so long that we had forgotten to miss it. She didn’t hurt anymore, the stiff painful tenseness was gone and for that we were grateful. Farm Girl carried her from the car and she and her daddy buried Hazel out front beyond the swing, there in the land she knew and loved. When it storms now, I thank the Lord that she is gone, no longer enduring the irrational fear and panic that sent her shaking and inconsolable into our arms, but otherwise, I miss her and selfishly wish her back with us.
We have endured some “firsts” without her, and they have hurt. My first night in the house without AB, and without Hazel to guard us. Our first trip from home, sending Archie alone to Miss Carolyn’s. And now Christmas will be here in couple of months. A year without her annual photograph under the tree, and her sleepy curiosity on Christmas morning as presents are opened. I cannot imagine. How thankful we are for answering that advertisement all those years ago in Columbia, South Carolina. How much richer, more delightful, and more meaningful our family memories remain for her presence in them. We miss you, girl.
Other less than stellar news:
The adoption languishes in limbo somewhere. Amazing to think that on some government gray metal desk in China sit’s a fat packet of information bearing our name. Photographs, income tax statements, every single scrap of personal information we were asked to produce three long years ago. The cynic in me thinks not. The cynic thinks that it was long ago tossed by some tired, fed up Chinese office clerk. But Cynic doesn’t speak as loudly as Faith . As I get older, I find we drown him out most days. Most days.
