The good doctor confronts the pain all pet lovers must eventually face
My best friend is dying.
I refer to my best friend of the furry, four-legged variety. For the past decade, regular Shrink-Rappers have known Betty Lou, my 14-year old loving companion who has filled my household with happiness, belly laughs, and the free entertainment that comes with taking a goofy pup on hikes, or playing in the snow, or going on road trips.
And rarely but sometimes, like now, has filled us with great worry. She has been our example of unconditional love and forgiveness.The Betty is a southern girl, born in Florida and dragged around the country by her Dad (me), having adventures that many dogs only dream of.
She has a “grandma” who provides her with sweaters at Christmas, gourmet bakery treats on her birthday, and the special hugs, kisses and lap-time that are the hallmarks of grandmothers everywhere. Spoiled? Nahhh.
But whatever attentions and affections that have been bestowed on Betty are mere morsels compared to the love she’s freely given since she was eight weeks old.
She’s been as loyal as they come, has always taken her guard-dog duties seriously (even if her hollow bark sounds like it’s coming from a block away, and gives the impression of a greeting more than a warning), and is very much a lover, not a fighter.
Neighbors come out to give her treats when we walk by, she makes friends with the neighborhood dogs, and the beagle up the street sends her a Christmas card every year. I’m not kidding.
I know it sounds like I’m gushing (my friends gave me a T-shirt that says, “Way too into his dog.”), and I am. This is the pup who self-potty trained, and after she opened her eyes from any one of her three operations she immediately began kissing on the nurse who was holding her.
Honestly, we’d go to her vet appointments and the techs would come out from the back saying, “Betty Lou is here!” and begin snuggling with her. This happened all the time, wherever we lived. I’d raise my hand and say, hello…um, I’m the one paying the bill. A little sugar for me? And they’d look at me like, who are you, and resume their little love-fest with the princess.
Betty is now under hospice care. I (with family help) am taking care of her at home. I have great respect for hospice care from my years as the Bereavement Director of a hospice in Los Angeles. But something new is happening.
Something that I can only attribute to yet another gift this wonderful creature is offering my soul; another set of lessons to allow me the opportunity to deepen my spirituality, to wrestle with my beliefs about the afterlife, and to crank up the gratitude that often forms the basis for my daily meditations.
Betty is teaching me that loss and grief can hold a certain space in a person’s heart when it’s someone else’s family member who’s dying, and an entirely different space when it’s a beloved family member of one’s own. And make no mistake about it: This gal is family.
A hundred times a day I hug on her, in an attempt to fit in all the love I possibly can in her final…weeks?…days?…hours? And I tell her I love her, I ask for her forgiveness for all the times I wasn’t as good a human toward her as I could have been, and I thank her for her companionship. For being with me through hard times.
For being by my side her entire life—to her, her main reason for living. I read somewhere that a pet may be just one part of our lives, but to them, we are their whole life.
I also read that dogs have the intelligence, sensitivity and ability to connect with others that’s roughly the equivalent of a four-year old child. Well, I’ll go to my own grave telling of how Betty was ready for med school, was at least as sensitive as any human I know, and connected with me as closely as any two of Mama Nature’s creatures can.
I am changed for having Betty Lou in my life. And I’m changing again for being with her during her final chapter. I’ve loved her (as my human best friend would say) to the moon and back.
Now, my household is preparing to let her go. To set her free to find her next adventure. To support her spirit as it soars away without us. And to be forever grateful that this furry bundle of love touched so many hearts so deeply.
Until next time: “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” —Dr. Seuss