This is the second post in a 3-part series. Click here to read the first in the series.

The morning sun filtered through the vertical window running alongside the front door. The light illuminated the tissues strewn about the living room, each casting a long shadow between me and my tenured K-9 companion. I had slept on the couch near him. Events from the day prior flooded my mind.

I lifted my head to check on him. He responded with the same action. We met eyes.

“Hey bud,” I said. “Good morning.”

He looked away and laid his head back down.

My heart sank. Somehow I felt extremely sad, grateful, happy and depressed all at once.

How was I going to navigate this?

The next several days we figured out our new normal. Our walks were pared down to short trips to the front yard for business only, followed by lounging in the grass. Our car rides evaporated and so did trips up the stairs and nights with him warming my feet in bed. Treats increased, but activity didn’t. I was grateful Hines was still around, if even for a little while. Another hour was better than zero more hours. Hopefully, I remember thinking, it’d be a few more months, maybe a year or two.

Now might be a good time to explain my brother, Tom, had a similar situation with his black lab, BB. When BB was around 10 years old, he started having issues and a vet eventually concluded the dog had an enlarged heart. BB was given only a few months to live. This broke everyone’s heart, but months came and went, and BB lived another two years.

That was our conundrum: I didn’t know whether Hines would make it another hour, or two more years. I had asked the vet, who gave a non-answer.

“I hate that question,” she said, followed by a long response that basically meant it was anybody’s guess. Nothing was promising, but everyone hoped it’d be a while. As for when it was time: “You’ll know.”

My counselor echoed that comment. She urged me to be present in the moment, something I’ve been working on in our sessions. She pointed out this phase of life would be interesting for that reason: I was forced to live in the moment, to be present.

So that’s how Hines and I spent the following days: trying to stay present in the moment – more of a challenge for me than him, I am certain. I reflected and wrote as Hines relaxed on his bed. I took time to snuggle when he allowed it and constantly reminded him he was the “best boy.” His soft snore, sometimes noticeably more labored, was comforting those nights I slept on the couch next to his bed. I’d wake often and listen for it to be sure he was still on Earth with me.

He instantly earned increased equity in the bags of popcorn and blocks of cheese we regularly munched on, and we checked off the last item on his bucket list by baking him some salmon treats, which he really enjoyed. I savored every click, flap, jingle and sigh I heard – even more than usual.

I looked back at Hines’ foster photo – a picture of us the week I took him home in January 2013 next to a brick pillar on the front patio at my parent’s place. My mom had taken the photo with a point-and-shoot camera that day. It was our first photo together and I remember the high hopes I had that we could get it right. Holding that glossy print in my hand, I smiled, recalling precisely what I felt that day: pride. I was proud of the dog I had chosen, happy to have found him, intrigued by how we clicked from day one and hopeful that we would get to know each other to the deepest level possible for a human and her chosen pup.

I also recall feeling fear. Was I capable of offering him what he needed? Did I have the time, the energy, the money, strength, and the resources to maintain an idealistic level of companionship?

Turns out the choice to adopt Hines was one of the best decisions – if not thee best decision – of my life, and by far the best $150 I’ve ever spent. A partner so far beyond mutual, we felt like a single unit. No compromise, always on the same page. Step by step, in line, in tune, in sync. I have a great family, wonderful friendships and have had some great relationships, too, but this was the most beautiful, graceful, harmonious partnership I’d ever known.

Hines filled my soul. He made me feel seen. He gave me connection and love. He taught me that I am worthy of unconditional love, and that I am capable of loving unconditionally, too. He showed me a depth of trust I had never reached. I was lucky to know his sweet, pure and beautiful love and was beyond blessed to get to spend my time, energy and money giving him the best life possible.

I began contemplating what life would be without him. Having parted ways with my long-term boyfriend less than a month previous, this was awful timing. The two ‘boys’ I leaned on hardest and loved most could both potentially be out of my life within days of each other. I started fearing solitude, the potential loneliness, the quiet, the house to myself, the sheer silence. No more jingle. No more clicking nails. No more growl, no bark. No flapping ears or slamming tail. No more fast feet racing down the stairs to make sure an adventure isn’t missed. No more comfy groans, excited whines, perfectly timed sighs or squeaky yawns.

This, I concluded, could be the most painful silence of my life, yet one I had no choice but to feel deep gratitude for. A pairing this magical would be so painful to let go of, but man, was I ever thankful I got to experience it all.

Over the next several days, we enjoyed two more slow-but-sure walks around the block on two of his better days. He started taking a half a set of stairs at a time, and spending time on “Hines’ Landing,” a spot in the home he always loved.

He even slept in my bed for a partial night on one occasion. But by the fifth day, my boy’s appetite faded and his willingness to step outside was used up. In the early morning of the sixth day, I pressured him to get outside, knowing he needed to. He got up but was very unsteady through his back legs and hips. When he got outside, he skipped the bathroom routine and instead laid down on the first spot of grass he reached.

“When it’s time, you’ll know.”

In that moment, I knew.

Hines was known for his expressiveness, but that morning his eyes were dark, his expression flat. He looked sad and oddly ready, like he knew what was to come and was just buying me time to come around on it. He ignored my continued encouragement to get him back up to relieve himself and instead, we sat in the darkness of the cool morning and used the time to just… be. I brought him more treats than he’d ever dream of – which he was only mildly interested in anymore. He drank several bowls of water. We spent two and a half hours in the front yard before he got up, peed and unsteadily headed toward the door.

Inside, his back legs got caught on the dog bed and he plopped down.

Knowing he’d want to say goodbye, I had called Mike, a man I had dated for years who was a big part of the last four years of Hines’ life. Having previously offered support, Mike was on his way, without hesitation, despite my constant excusing him of the awful upcoming task.

We had agreed Mike could let himself in without a knock or ringing the doorbell to save Hines any concern. When the door cracked open and the sun filtered in behind Mike, Hines lifted his head and let out a loud bark. When Mike continued in, Hines’ low, mean growl started in strong, but he remained on his bed: the first time he ever stayed put for an unexpected visitor. When he finally heard Mike’s voice, his tail got in on the action, slamming the floor several times. He let out a squeal as his boy came to rub his ears.

Those were the last times I heard the bark, the growl, the notorious tail slam and the excited squeal. 

To give Mike some time with Hines, I left the room to begin making calls to in-home euthanasia organizations and figure out the plan for the day. Reading the website copy for these businesses, I would have rather been calling any other business for any other service.

Am I really doing this? Is this real life?

Every number I typed felt worse, breath became harder with each digit. Then the ring.

Would I even be able to speak?

Ring.

Deep down I hoped nobody would be available.

Ring.

The voicemails of multiple businesses attempted to give comfort but had the opposite effect. There was really nothing anyone could say to make this feel better. A time machine was the only answer to this problem, and I didn’t have one.

After three attempts, it was clear we’d have to put Hines through the discomfort of his last car ride. I called the vet to schedule a time to come in, but she offered to come to my home. I had been told it wasn’t a service she offered, and – for whatever reason – I found myself reminding her of that on the phone.

“We don’t like to make a habit of it, but this time, we can do it,” she said.

I don’t know why she had the kindness in her heart for us that day, but rather than resisting, I accepted and jotted down her promise that she’d come out around 1:00 p.m.

Three hours. Three hours until I say bye to Hines.

The next several hours began to feel bittersweet. Mike had picked up an ink pad so I could make a few prints of Hines’ paw. Hines always jerked his paws from me when touched, but that day he begrudgingly – yet obediently – looked at me and calmly let me press his giant paw from an oversized ink pad onto the center of several pieces of paper, until I had what I wanted.

During this time, I changed my mind from cremation to a burial at my sister’s cabin in northern Minnesota. I formerly hadn’t been able to even fathom driving my deceased dog any distance to dig any depth of hole, but with an offer from my sister and brother-in-law, as well as Mike’s strength and encouragement, I entertained the idea before finally settling on it. I liked the idea of having a place to visit and laying Hines to rest in a place we loved most – outdoors, in the woods, among the trees, close to family.

Two more hours until the vet comes.

We spent additional time cuddling and petting Hines. We told him he was going to see BB (his “cousin” and bestie). Family members called and requested to say goodbye to Hines over speakerphone. All there was left to do was offer Hines even more of his favorite treats. We overdid it on Pup-Peroni and Beggin’ bacon treats. We offered him cheese, carrots and the salmon treats we’d baked. Finally, in one swoop Hines got back up and headed toward the door.

Outside, Hines laid down in a spot he liked in the yard, so we joined him. The weather matched our moods that day. Slightly overcast, a light, steady rain filling the air. Mike continually offered a raincoat, blanket or umbrella, but curled up with Hines on the lawn, the rain felt calming and cleansing. Nothing would have felt better. It was exactly what we needed.

One hour until the vet comes.

I had just finished pointing out that we probably looked like lunatics, lounging in the lawn in the rain, when a woman I’ve never seen started approaching on the sidewalk across the street. I found her particularly interesting for a few reasons. For starters, I had never seen her. I live on an odd half-loop in my neighborhood and see the same people repeatedly, but rarely does my loop serve as a walking path to newcomers. She had an adorable girl in tow who was wearing a raincoat and keeping tabs on the ground. The woman was pushing a stroller with a small dog tethered to the side.

“Odd day for a picnic,” she offered from across the street, imposing into our kooky outing.

How do I respond to this?

“Yeah….” I mustered up.

I’m not good at pretending. Plus, how do I explain the perplexity of this situation to a passerby? I don’t know her. She doesn’t know me. Or Hines. Or Mike. Or anything.

“Are you waiting for the vet?” she asked.

This surprised me. Perhaps what we were doing was that obvious. I didn’t think it was. Then again, I was delusional and wasn’t actually sure of anything.

I said “yes,” but it probably came out as more of a question.

There was a long pause. I looked at Mike. How did she know?

“I hope you find the same amount of peace in your decision as we did in ours,” the woman said.

I was stunned. Not only did she know exactly what was going on, but she had been through the event every dog owner dreads just months prior. What are the chances she walks by at a time I needed the assurance? I had been doubting my decision all morning. Would Hines maybe be better after drinking a little water? Was he just tired? What if we administered another one of those miracle IVs they gave him last week?

Nope. Here was my assurance.

She continued on her way, but that memory stuck. Could that have been an angel? An angel and her clan, appearing in raincoats in perfect time? I haven’t seen her since, which furthers my belief that she, indeed, was an angel.

Eventually a large, white SUV turned down the loop. The vehicle was unfamiliar to my loop.

“Uh oh, Hines,” I said, giving him a squeeze and burying my face in his fur. The vehicle pulled up to the curb.

If he were feeling well, this scenario would have played out much differently. Hines would have gotten to his feet and the long ridge of hair extending from his neck down to his tail would have stood. He would have let out a low, mean growl and started barking when the car doors opened. This behavior would have continued until he deemed these women safe. Instead, he stayed put and didn’t make a single noise.

He knew.

I greeted the vet and her tech, and they explained a few things before starting the process. I had anticipated this pain for a very long time, dreading the day he wouldn’t be with me anymore, unsure of how life could even go on without him there. I held his head in my hands and told him he had done a perfect job, tried one last time to express exactly how much I loved him and reminded him for the millionth time – I would miss him. His head became heavy in my hands and cried from a place deeper than I had ever felt. I would have been okay if my life were over then, too.

“How you say goodbye, end a pose, leave a job, finish a class, or end a relationship carries energy into the next. Each thought, each breath, each action leads to another. The trick is to know and appreciate when something has finished, and transition with grace.”

The vet tech offered a hug and minutes after it had arrived; the SUV pulled away. I hugged Mike and then looked down at Hines. That’s when I noticed that even in the sorrow, there was also magnificent peace. Peace in knowing I got to say goodbye. Peace in having the opportunity to tell him my last words. And, just like the millions of adventures we’d shared, peace in reaching a point where we were simultaneously ready.

On the way out of town, I made a wrong turn, which led us to one last trip to Hines’ favorite park. Mike and I walked the loop I had enjoyed with Hines hundreds of times. Since we moved to the area over four years ago, those trails had been a great source of joy for Hines and me. Hines never tired of chasing countless squirrels up the trees, and I always enjoyed watching the attempt. He rarely came close to catching one, but he sure loved the chase.

That day, the squirrels were vocal, letting out screeching noises I’d never heard. You’d think I was imagining it, but that wasn’t the case.

“Seems they’re saying goodbye,” Mike said. A fresh set of tears rolled down my cheeks as we continued through the loop before finally coming to the bank of the Mississippi River. I looked down the bank and smiled. I imagined how Hines used to run down to the water to get a drink.

When I first adopted Hines, he would go to great lengths to avoid stepping in a puddle. I distinctly remember this, because the year I bought Hines, I was training for my first and only marathon on record and took him on runs for distances up to 17 miles. The spring brought melt and we often ran a jagged route to honor his refusal to touch water. That fear changed over our years together and he eventually learned – thanks mostly to BB – to enjoy “dipping” into his belly when it was warm and slurping up a drink when he had the chance.

Mike and I each selected a few river rocks and leaves from the park that reminded us of Hines, and off we went to my sister’s cabin. My brother-in-law, Rob, had already cleared a large area of their lot for what’s now referred to as “Hines Field.” The sun came out that afternoon, brightening our spirits and warming my soul. For that, I was beyond thankful.

We chose a spot near the edge of the cleared area with a red oak tree nearby. I imagined my sister’s kids (also big Hines fans) playing in that area with Hines situated on the sidelines. I liked that imagery.

We placed a few meaningful items next to him, including his beloved Kong (filled with two treats: one placed by Mike, one placed by me), a conjoined acorn, rocks from the Mississippi and a picture of us. When we finished burying him, I stared at the ground, completely unsure of what should come next.

“We could build a bench,” Rob offered.

A bench sounded wonderful. He went to work on that, and Mike helped me find a special rock to mark the site. I chose one with a line running through it. Later, my dad pointed out he had always tried to find the same when he had dogs that passed away. I guess it’s one of those things that gets passed on to future generations.

Years prior, Mike had made an engraved sign with Hines’ name on it. Until that day, the sign was propped proudly in my garage. Hines’ paw was faint, but present in a dusty mud texture next to the wood burned letters. That day, we brought the sign out to the woods to place at his site.

Before long, the bench was made, and the rock and sign were placed. When our work was finished, the guys went on to build a fire by the cabin. I stepped back and looked at the red oak at the head of his site. Its red leaves were gorgeous, lit by the sun. Behind it, a sea of aspens swayed in the wind, their fluttering leaves making a super pleasant, peaceful sound. This was good. All of this was very good. Aspens and red oaks took on an entirely new meaning to me that day and carried me through fall.

We built a fire that night and admired the moon when it fell dark. We were just two days short of seeing the Full Harvest Moon and when it came, we called it the “Hines Moon.”

There it was, a full day, closing with many of nature’s elements. Rain. Sun. Dirt. Water. Wind. Trees. Fire. Moon.

I returned home to a gift from neighbors on my porch with a note expressing care, concern and support. The words in the card made it obvious that they had gone through something similar. They understood none of this was easy.

I was unmistakably sad, but I felt a sense of peace I never would have expected on that day. Rob, Mike, family, friends, neighbors, strangers, angels and the vet showed Hines and I love that day. Hines’ memorial came together perfectly on what ended up being a beautifully divine day. I had dreaded that day for years, fearing how badly it would sting, fearing my heart would suffer terribly. It ached, and still aches, but as Paulo Coelho says in The Alchemist, “the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself.”

It seemed appropriate to leave the string of deck lights on that evening to illuminate the dark night in memory of Hines. I hoped someway, somehow, he could feel that out there. For the first time in six nights, I spent a full night in my bed, and the glow of the lights filtered through my bedroom window similar to how the morning light shone in just six short mornings ago. Though this time the feeling was much, much different.

Shootin’ the Wit is a sporadic blog about everyday life that should never, ever be taken too seriously.

This is the 2nd post in a 3-part series. Click here to read the third in the series.