Some of you reading this might already know that our dog Piper passed away on February 22. It’s taken me this to gather my thoughts about it, although now that I’m writing this I don’t even know if I’ve fully processed everything, and if I ever will.
It’s February 29. It’s a leap year, so we have this ONE extra day in our lives, and if we are lucky, we can choose to do something special, different, or amazing, something that sets the tone for the rest of the year, perhaps. What would you do if you had one extra day in your life?
I took the day off work and will be doing something nice for myself later. Right now I’m here, with a hot cup of tea. It’s cold and bright outside today and I’m sitting in a sun puddle with the laptop. Piper would approve.
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If you’ve ever lost a cherished pet you are familiar with the feeling. It’s like a piece of yourself has been violently torn away without your permission. You are left there, cold, bereft, with an essential part of you just… missing. Forever.
It’s strange but this has got me thinking of the Japanese art of repairing broken ceramic pottery and glass. I had to look up what it’s called: Kintsugi. Gold lacquer is used to glue the broken pieces together again, an act of repair which results in something that is more beautiful and, maybe even stronger than it was before.
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I cried at the dentist’s office yesterday. I walked in, and our dentist – who, I should say, has known our family for about 20 years – was sitting in the receptionist’s chair. How are you, she asked. My face fell. Oh no, what happened?
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We bought Piper at a pet store. It was during March Break. Here’s a post I wrote at that time. What I didn’t mention is that although it was love at first sight I really wrestled with bringing a pet into our lives. I knew she was going to die someday and I was going to be shattered.
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I can say Piper was the best dog but everyone says they have the best dog. Piper was the best for our family, the best for me. She was such a funny little thing, always a twinkle of mischief in her eye. Terriers are known to be stubborn and single-minded, and she fit the mould. Sometimes this was frustrating, but it was also a level of independence that we admired. She was her own dog. She was a quick learner with a repertoire of impressive tricks. She was incredibly smart but only when it suited her. I once taught her how to ring a bell so she could let us know that she needed to out without scratching the door. She quickly figured out that she only needed to ring the bell if she wanted a treat, regardless of whether she actually needed out or not. We gave up on the bell soon after that.
Once someone in a wheelchair gave her a treat. For MANY years afterwards she’d approach people in wheelchairs with hopeful attention.
Other times, she was incredibly un-terrier-like. She ignored squirrels and wanted to play with cats and wild rabbits in our yard and neighbourhood. She was an incredibly kind and gentle dog. Always curious, always alert.
She liked the outdoors. We’d take her for walks in the woods, or down by the river. She was in her element here, enjoying the experience to the fullest. It made us enjoy our walks more too, for what is life about if not simple pleasures? The sun on your back, the wind in your face, the smell of the forest around you. We learn so much from our dogs. These are lessons worth learning, and remembering.
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How many times will I turn around expecting to see her cheery face, only to realize she’s not here anymore? I look for her, curled up in any of her favourite spots. Never again will I be greeted with such enthusiasm when I come home. When I’m walking down the sidewalk my eyes still fall downward, expecting to see her trotting along beside me, with the occasional glance over her shoulder to make sure I’m still there. My memory of her is so strong I still see her everywhere.
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I have often referred to Piper as a furry family member, but as I write this I wonder, what was she exactly. Sure, we adopted her. We owned her, but who owns who in this relationship exactly? Can you really own a living being, or just promise to take responsibility for it? We cared for her, but didn’t she care for us in her own way? The word companion does not seem good enough.
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On Wednesday night I took her for a walk after dinner. She is usually a slow walker, she had always set a slow and deliberate pace – sometimes frustratingly so – because she was a big sniffer and had to investigate every detail along our route. But that night, she wasn’t tip-toe prancing with ears bobbing as she normally did. She was plodding, one paw at a time. I picked her up, but instead of turning around and heading home, we finished our walk but with her in my arms. I felt it was the least I could do.
Piper had been on a steady decline – with an unsteady gait and increasingly poor appetite but she was back on her anti-cancer meds as well as a liver support medication so we thought she might stay the course for a while but things took a turn. Wednesday night into early Thursday morning was bad. Mark and I had been taking turns sleeping on the pullout sofa downstairs to be closer to her in case of emergency. (Piper never really wanted to sleep upstairs for some reason!) She was incredibly restless and barely able to walk without her legs giving out. At one point I brought her into the sofa bed with me. Her heart was racing and she was panting but she eventually settled down, curled up right next to my face. She licked my face. Was it an apology? A note of thanks? A reminder? Was it love?
Our pets love us unconditionally, perhaps that’s part of the reason why this kind of loss is so deep and so terrible. It’s like a bright energy source you’ve learned to depend upon is suddenly torn away, leaving you feeling hollow and empty, alone in the dark.
Thursday was probably one of the longest days of my life. To preserve some of her dignity I will spare you the details of her sharp decline.
She stopped eating almost entirely. She had four seizures in the span of a few hours – this had never happened before and was terrible to witness.
At 2:30 the situation got worse. I told myself I’d wait until 3:30 to call someone. Maybe she’d get better? But it became clear I couldn’t wait. At 3 p.m. I called a mobile vet service our vet recommended. Dialling that number was one of the hardest things I have had to do. The first one I called was Dr. Carmen Purtscher of Lindenlea Mobile Veterinary Services. She said she couldn’t come today and gave me the names of two other mobile vets but then as we were ending the call she asked me to call her back if no one could come. I called the two, and then some others, breaking down on the phone each time. No one could come, so I called Carmen back. She said she couldn’t come until late, and was apologetic about it.
Piper and I watched the sun go down.
We sat on the front porch together because it was one of her favourite things to do.
She had ice cream for dinner. She poked around in the snow a bit:
I rocked her in my arms while walking around the house, like you would if you were holding a baby. It was the only thing that soothed her. I’d stop in front of the mirror so I could memorize her face. Look at us, I’d say.
I can’t tell you about Piper’s last moments with us because it hurts so much. I can’t tell you how many tears I cried. But I can tell you that at the end all her pain went away and she died peacefully, knowing that she was loved. It was exactly 10 p.m. when I looked at the time.
Carmen was so gentle and kind. She was the perfect person. When it was done, she wrapped Piper in a blanket and took her away, holding her closely as if she were her own.
We will choose a warm spring day to scatter her ashes.
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I will share something here with you, a detail I was going to actually going keep to myself. Carmen had gone to her car to put some things away, leaving us alone. I took out my phone with the intent of taking one last photo of Piper. Internally, I debated with myself. Would I regret taking it? Not taking it? The room was darkish, lit mostly by candlelight and whatever light was coming in from the kitchen. I took the photo but as I did so I noticed it was not responding properly – it was glitching somehow. I took another, and another, and then satisfied (if that’s the word) I put my phone away. The next day I looked at my photos and it wasn’t there. The photo never took. I’m a science-minded person, and maybe it’s silly but I can’t help but think that it wasn’t meant to be, that something that we don’t understand, intervened.
The universe speaks to us in mysterious ways. I can’t tell you how many people reached out to let me know that the New York Times Wordle on Friday was PIPER. I do the Wordle every day, but I didn’t do it Friday.
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As some of you know, Piper is on Instagram. I could write a whole other post about what it’s been like to be part of the #dogsofinstagram community.
Piper had surgery in Montreal last year to remove two cancerous masses from her liver. Her Instagram friends supported us, not just emotionally, but financially, donating over $16,000 to a GoFundMe set up in her name. This alleviated so much stress at a terrible time and it allowed us to make some decisions that would have been very difficult given the associated costs, such as a CT scan (which is how we found out she had three tumours, not just one as they had thought: two in her liver and one in her esophagus) as well as two blood transfusions.
I will never forget the immense kindness of these virtual strangers – people from around the world who fell in love with our dog on Instagram. I am forever changed because of her, because of them.
I don’t think I’ve managed to read all of the comments on her last post.
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Grief is love wrapped in a heavy coat. Sarah said this to me after Piper died and it has stayed with me. As much as I grieve Piper’s loss I am grateful for the gifts she gave us… the ability to strip a moment down to its bare bones, to the sun, the wind, the love in our lives, the food on our plates. Gratitude for a warm blanket, fresh snowfall, a belly rub. I will treasure her memory and her gifts, always and forever.
