Muddy leaves a hole but Bear and I shift

Bear and Mud the night before he died, constant mates

If you follow us on social media, you know of our hard loss yesterday, which we had planned for. Muddy was helped out of pain at one o'clock. I was grateful the vet agreed to come to our farm to do the procedure. We were able to hold him and I lay with him in the garden before and after.

I won't rehash the day. I documented it in earnest on Instagram, something I felt compelled to do, from the night before, to the morning of and then through the burial. I always say, for me, it is important to share the sad with the joy, it is the same balancing act we all face daily in our own lives, it is the human condition, it is Nature's law book. I had not told people what day we were going to put him down, so those that tuned in saw the lead up to the moment, through emotive images of Bear and Muddy. I think some or most had a sense of the buildup I was feeling on the death day. It was not a comfortable feeling and I was emotional much of the day. I tried not to be gushy in front of Muddy, but I shared a lot of things with him in the final week.

I really wasn't sure how Bear would respond once the burial was over and we returned to the house, without his buddy. He definatly knew Mud was gone, in the grave, he saw it and smelled it, he got it. Animals know. But sitting in the garden at night with us, he kept smelling the air. He sat by me most of the evening, in the house too. I know he was a bit aimless.

This morning, he was very quiet, rather than vocalizing at a certain point in his crate to 'Hurry up, I want to get up". He was fine, but he was less puppy-like-squirmy. We've been working on that. He also shifted his position on where he would lay down, and has been laying down nearest to whereever I am.

I told him this is our restart together as a team. We bonded from the moment we met, we really did. And we had our early training at Cove's Edge where he was just a super little therapy guy, calm, smart, fearless, quiet. I've been a bit short with him in the past couple months, since I was overprotecting harm to Mud and his bone. So now, we can work again together, we did some obedience work today and he was fine, he knows the commands, we will get that down quickly. He just needs to know I'm here.

The lead up to the event was worse than the finality of the burial. Yes, I miss him so much. But when I walked out this morning with Bear, I was relieved for Mud that he didn't have to limp out with me, put on his wagging tail face and feel the pain that we knew was only growing. We had two extra months with him and are grateful.

But there is a hole.

If you aren't afraid of where you came from then fear not where you go after death

Muddy yesterday morning

I've written about a friend who was diagnosed with ALS, a very cruel disease. She shared a thought she had read by Parker Palmer about dying, from his book On the Brink of Everything. He didn't fear where he came from before he was born born so he realized he should not have fear where he was going after he died.

I thought this was a very wise statement and made much sense to me. It also resonates with me because it shows the continuum of life-but that life is entwined with a million deaths and rebirths. We are constantly dying–our skin, our hair, teeth and bones....we walk around living but are dying passively. The flowers in the garden are alive now but are on the path of death. If we can see death as a partner in life -for me, it helps.

But goodbyes as a human are hard.

We ran to the vet on Friday for more pain meds for Muddy who has been diagnosed with terminal bone cancer at the age of 10.5. So we have been ruminating on how many more days is the right number of days for him. We are of course hanging on to each day, but it is exhausting carrying the power around of being the one that holds his final number of days in my hands.

I've done this long enough to know that things can seem manageable in pain and pallitive care one day and then the next day they aren't–and that creates a rushed, less peaceful end for both human and animal. There is nothing we are doing that is treating the cancer we are simply hoping for painless days. But on Friday he showed signs of more pain, and we added another pain pill into the mix. It seemed to help a lot.

But we are still left with the duty of asking, and answering how many days? What is one more week for him–is one more week for him as important to him as it is to us?

And so...I thought of this statement that my friend shared. She too is facing an earlier death than she had imagined due to the ALS. But if I don't fear where Muddy was before his birth, I won't fear where he is going.

Muddy and Bear yesterday

The long goodbye...but what a gift

Muddy and Bear, yesterday

At a routine vet visit on Tuesday, I found out the Muddy has terminal bone cancer. I had him to the vet to see about getting stronger arthritis meds for him, but the vet immediately looked at his new bump on his front leg elbow, which had come on about 3 weeks ago, and wanted to do an xray, and I assumed it was all arthritis related since that was his gimpy leg. I knew by his face when he came out with the xray.

The option of putting a near eleven year old dog in surgery and removing his entire front leg right up to the shoulder and then doing chemo, all to get him another 6 months [some live a year or so]...well, I didn't even question it, I was not putting him through that. The vet agreed. I know there are examples of pets making it another year or more, but I want quality not quantity for him.

I'm heartbroken. And shocked. Just envisioned another couple years of Gramps and his puppy friend.

I asked my vet if it was his dog [he has a lab] would he put him down right now? "No, take him home and let him live his days out...but you guys have to prepare yourselves."

He said it could be a week or weeks or maybe a couple months. He didn't seem to feel it would be a year. He said that in most cases [most] when the lump is visible it already means the cancer has spread, and the next organ effected will be his lungs.

I've never brought a dog home to live out the final days or weeks. They have always failed and needed to be put down for one reason or another. I have never had the uneasy feeling of waking up each day and looking in the big brown eyes and knowing what I know..."You my friend, are dying."

Its like one long goodbye without an end.

I remember when my father was in home hospice. He started hospice in January. He died in late March. Leading up to the final days, I remember my mother -who I talked to every day- saying,

"It's time."

It was time for him, but also time for her.

I think in my experience when I know an animal is failing, and I keep trying to help if at all possible, there is a point of clarity that you have done all you can do. The animal has probably let go, and it is time for you to let go.

If I see anything compromising, I will act. Any breathing problems, any signs of depression...for now, I love on him double. Muddy always comes into my room after Martyn leaves at 6:30. He makes these sweet talking sounds, always has. I smoosh him, his chocolate ears are so soft. I tell him I love him, he knows. Then he follows me into the bathroom, more talks...and on and on. At night we help him onto the couch, he can still do it but he's getting the royal treatment.

He still is eager to get up. He still loves his baby bro. He still can be Muddy.

When he can't be Muddy, he will cease to be himself.

But it is a long goodbye.

Just as I feel Bear came to me to help John, the elder gentlemen who got to be Bear's first and favorite therapy contact at the elder home [he died in March], I too think Bear came for me, for us, not only to be a transition after Mud's death, but as a transition for Muddy. When Huck died at age 12, we had only been in Maine less than a year, we still had a younger Muddy who then was only 6. Muddy was vibrant and alive, and even though they were blood brothers and it was hard to lose Huck, Muddy helped. He played, and cared for old blind Hughie. In a very short time, Muddy took on the role of elder. He seemed to age overnight, about a year ago, his face greying earlier than Huck's did. Now I wonder if he had the cancer even then. He couldn't do his moves with his frisbee, and now plays tug of war instead of running. He sleeps a lot.

It also does not go without noticing that about a month or so ago, we noticed that The Goose was pecking and preening Muddy's feet and legs. I thought it was The Goose noticing the arthritis, but now I think he could sense the cancer, or at least the pain it must give Muddy. The Goose is after all our resident intuit.

Long goodbyes are especially exhausting, for everybody. They are limbo land. But, if you told me I could have had another month or so with Hughie to ease into a goodbye, I would have taken it.

This is a gift.  Even though we new Muddy would not live forever, the knowledge that his days are shorter than we thought means each day is like a new theatrical play you have been waiting to see forever come to the stage. Each day, he will show up and I will watch him like he's Marlon Brando performing at his peak. Standing ovations each night.

So I will relish, although with a lot of sadness, this long goodbye....with my beautiful chocolate boy. And he has taught Bear a thing or two. And Bear will stay on ...and run and jump and do all the things we have watched first Huck, then Mud, do. The chocolate legacy.

The Goose is a fine tuned sensing machine-we take him seriously

Oh, Lord, these two

Mud split a toenal so I bandaged to stop slight bleeding

"What happened to your foot?" Bear wonders.

"I'll live, don't worry, little fella."