DogGone

I don’t know what I would have done if I had been there. I would not have been able to stop it, change anything, or save her. If someone has the ability to stay Death’s hand, it certainly is not me. In all likelihood, I would have beat myself up for not noticing the changes in her behavior as she rapidly grew weaker. So why did I feel so much resentment? Why did I hate myself for not being able to help her from 440 miles away? But most of all, why did I know something was wrong that sweltering June evening despite so vast a distance between us?

The evening of Wednesday June 25th, 2019 was when my dog, Maddie, died at seven years of age. She was a true mutt, with her most prominent features being those of a Boxer, Pit bull, and Chow Chow. An unlikely water dog, her favorite summer activity was paddling after me as I swam across my pool and swimming with her is what I would have been doing that day had I not been camping in the mountains of Southern California with some friends.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, I had already been camping for half a week. I wasn’t particularly enjoying the camp, it was hot, dry, dusty, and I had some conflict with the camp staff, but that’s a story for another time. The one highlight of my day was when I was able to relax under the shade of some trees in my hammock and read or chat about everything and nothing with my friends. That evening, as I reclined in my hammock, I was surprised to be greeted with a wet nose being thrust into my face. The camp dog, whose name I never learned, decided to pay me a visit. An old cattle dog, her muzzle was streaked with gray and her fur was faded, but what always caught my attention was her bright, clear brown eyes. She was rumored to be 16, but I had a hard time believing it given how hale she was. She removed her nose from my face and curled up on the ground next to me. I reached a hand out and began running my fingers through her fur. Ryan, the only one of my friends to have set up a hammock next to mine, watched me pet her and sat in silence for a minute. After pointing out her gray hair, he mentioned his own dog, Bailey, who was almost as old as the camp dog was rumored to be, but in much worse health. I remember clearly how he said “I would never forgive myself if Bailey died while I was at summer camp. It’s my greatest fear every time I leave.” For a reason I didn’t understand at the time, I felt a pit in my stomach and my hand stilled. Trying to reassure him, as any good friend would do, I told him that there is no way he would be that unlucky and when the time eventually came for Bailey to pass, he’d be able to say goodbye. He didn’t respond to that and we fell into silence. The feeling of emptiness in my gut didn’t abate. Shifting beneath my hand, the camp dog reclaimed my attention and I quickly resumed petting her. I calmed down and eventually drifted off to sleep as tree branches swayed above my head. When I woke up, the dog was gone.

After returning home, I discovered what happened while I was gone. Despite being only seven years old and in seemingly perfect health – she had been going for long runs around the neighborhood with my dad every day including that of her death – Maddie had died laying in the shade of a tree in our back yard. I was struck dumb. I had never had to deal with loss like this before. Maddie was the first pet I had ever had that I truly considered mine. She grew up with me. I think what hurt the worst was that I lived my friend’s greatest fear: I never said goodbye.

It took a lot of time and a whole lot of anger but I eventually reconciled what had happened. Whether you want to call it an act of God or simple bad luck, Maddie had died and I would never know why. It hurt; it still hurts that she is gone, but there is no changing what happened. Cliché or not, I learned to focus on the seven years of good memories I had with her and let them fill the emptiness she left behind. Not as a replacement or a substitute – memories can never fill that role – but as a way to appreciate the life she lived.