Years ago, while seated in the lobby of the vet’s office with our family dog, Winston, a woman quietly entered through the front door. She walked up to the reception desk and announced that she was there to pick up her cat. After a few minutes, a vet tech returned with a small cedar box containing the remains of her recently cremated cat. Without missing a beat, a young child turned to his mom and loudly asked, “Mom! How did they fit a big cat in such a small box?”
This is Odie’s box. Despite my hopes, wishes, and the best of medicine, he fits inside just fine.
On a Wednesday, Odie decided he wasn’t hungry anymore. By Saturday evening, his front legs dragged his limp back legs across the ground. And on Sunday night, being carried became his primary mode of transport.
Cancer is cruel.
The jingle and sight of his leash mustered up a tired sense of excitement and joy on Monday morning, as I carried Odie into the car for one last ride. He plopped on Liz’s lap, head resting on her arm as he alternated between sleep and watching the scenery go by.
We waited together in the lobby of the vet’s office for an eternity. Once on the exam table, Odie’s mood soured and his eyes became vacant. He knew.
After much discussion and reassurance, the vet administered a sedative to render him unconscious. Odie gradually melted into my arms as we recited our goodbyes. Shortly before he lost consciousness, he regained his signature happy dog smile and was calm. His heart quietly stopped only seconds after the final injection. Liz and I stroked his fur as he took his last breath.
I have never felt so empty in my life as I did in that moment.
Knowing for months that Odie’s time was short, both Liz and I began snapping pictures on a regular basis. I promised myself that when his time drew near, we would document his last adventures with us. Just a few weeks before Odie died, blogger and photographer Robyn Arouty published a post titled, “I Died Today – By Duke Roberts,” which photographically chronicled the last few hours of life from the perspective of Duke, a terminally-ill black Labrador. It instantly went viral on the internet. While my camera-phone skills don’t hold a candle to Robyn’s professional talent, this is how I imagine Odie would have remembered his last few months with us.
“Maybe if I sleep on your face, you’ll forget about the flu and I’ll forget about the cancer.”
“Put down the cookie, fat ass.”
“Let’s have a cookout with Kate and Andrew. New Jersey isn’t so bad!”
“Life doesn’t get better than a Saturday morning on the couch.”
“I love a lazy night on the hammock in Hockessin.”
“While Michael wasn’t looking, I snagged his sub.”
“Fresh sheets…soft pillow. I guess you can have the other side.”
“These vet trips are exhausting for you guys, too?”
“Look, I’ll take as many cancer pills as you want. Just keep the Skippy coming, man.”
“Time for burgers and fries at the US Hotel.”
“Photobomb!”
“I feel better. Let’s drive to the river.”
“Was swimming on my bucket list? You get in first. I’ll think about it.”
“I’m not hungry, but you guys need to eat. Let’s go to Greg’s!”
“So glad we hit the beer garden today.”
“I’m pretty tired, guys.”
“That nap was great. Let’s keep this party rolling.”
“Ok, time to go home. Thanks for the lift.”
“So I guess this is it, guys. Don’t worry about me…worry about yourselves.”
Over the years, I’ve heard plenty of stories of friends and family losing their beloved pets, described as the “worst day” of their lives. While I never doubted their sentiment, I certainly didn’t understand the gravity of their loss. I get it now.
Odie’s time with me was certainly not without its challenges, from health issues to behavioral problems. I sincerely want to thank family and friends who have been patient with him and supportive of me, and particularly want to acknowledge my family, Joe Couvillon, and the care and advice of vets Laura Fontana and Larry Rebbecchi. You each had a hand in improving Odie’s quality of life, all the way until the end. For that, a very humble thank you from Odie, Liz, and me. The cards, messages, and kind words have been much appreciated.
While it has only been a few weeks since the last walk, car ride, or couch snuggle, not a day has gone by where I don’t badly miss that ball of fur. I will walk in the front door, only to be greeted by disappointment, or the jingle of dog tags outside the window will cause my ears to perk up and heart to sink. And the kitchen floor has never been so dirty, as the daily crumb-scavenging service that Odie lived for has come to a close. Perhaps I’ll have to start eating at the table.
When I think back to our first meeting and test drive, Odie stopped in front of my car and laid down, refusing to walk any farther in the direction of his previous home. When I tried to drag him, he wouldn’t budge. But when I opened the car door, he hopped proudly into the front seat, for the first of many drives together.
Even now, I sometimes think I catch a glimpse of him in the mirror, smiling as he watched the world pass by.