Well, I took Tru-dog in yesterday. My heart is broken in ways it has never been before. I miss my dog. I know I did the right thing but it doesn’t make it any easier. It still hurts like nothing else.
Everything went well at the vet. No complications, other than I was trying to get Truman’s paw prints with an ink pad and paper with little success. Thankfully, they offer a ceramic paw print that I graciously took advantage of. It should be ready for pick up today. I’ll take that to my tattoo artist to have the paw print placed over my heart.
In the room, the veterinary clinic had set up a large blanket with a padded blanket on top of it. This is where I laid with my dog before, during, and after. They shaved a place on one of his back legs to find a vein then injected the fluid. I took the hair with me. I was holding Truman’s head in my lap, looking into his eyes, petting his head, rubbing his ears, when the vet started to apply pressure to the plunger. There was a moment of uncertainty in Truman’s eyes and I leaned over, kissed his head, and said, “You’re ok. Just let go. I love you.” He closed his eyes. “Thank you, my Tru-dog. You have really been the best dog ever in the whole wide world.”
I laid on the floor with him, hugging and petting Truman, for about 15 minutes after he was gone and just cried from my soul. Still crying, I sat up and massaged his body and shook his tail one last time, something I used to do with him all the time. Leaving was incredibly difficult.
As I was walking out the door that leads to the parking lot, I glanced back at him. It was so…surreal. There was my dog, laying calmly on the floor, as I was leaving. My dog but not my dog. In some ways, I have admit, it felt as if I was abandoning him by leaving. I know he was gone but I could still see him. He had licked my face less than half an hour ago.
Today, it feels so empty at home. Sure, there are the three other dogs, but they are not my Tru-dog. Enzo wanders around the yard every now and again, sniffing, goes over to one of Truman’s spots that he always liked to lay in, sniffs, then goes and lays down inside with a loud sigh. How does one explain the absence of a pack member to a dog? Time, I guess.
My heart, on the other hand, feels like a three hundred pound brick in my chest. My soul feels damaged. It doesn’t help that the second I felt him leave, my first thought was ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ followed by ‘too late.’ I know I couldn’t let him stay but nothing inside of me was ready to let go of him. I know I will stop crying and be able to breathe, again, eventually.
Whenever I have had someone I love die, at least in my adult life, I have bought a candle in a color that makes me think of them. I then etch their name, birth date, and death date on the candle, anoint it with oils I feel appropriate, then light it and let it burn until it is done, never blowing it out. Truman was always the color blue. I used sandalwood, clary sage, and lavender oils on the candle. Now, to get used to the void that is left by his absence.
Safe travel’s, my dog. Thank you for everything. I love you. You have forever changed me.