The Comeback Girl

The Comeback Girl

I was initially planning on taking a break from writing about Rosie this week and instead share a van update, but when I realized that today is the one-month mark of Rosie’s passing, it seemed appropriate—necessary, even—to honor her once again. I normally do my best writing in the morning, but once I decided, last night, to change my plan and write about Rosie, I stayed up late typing as much of this as I could so that I wouldn’t be completely overwhelmed this morning. I’m afraid that, with the limited time I’ve given myself, this may not be the most concise piece of writing I’ve shared, so please forgive that, but I want to share with you some details of her final day.

For those that got to meet Rosie, you’ll undoubtedly remember her calm, sweet, gentle energy (unless there was a pesky squirrel nearby, in which case you’d likely remember her speed of pursuit and absolute unwillingness to respond to verbal commands). Rosie was an exceedingly loyal partner, yet was fiercely independent. She cared deeply about where I was and what I was doing, yet would gladly explore on her own for hours if I allowed. In fact, when she was young I used to let her roam freely around the little mountain town where my family has property. I was initially afraid she’d get lost but I eventually learned to trust her; she always made her way home (albeit far dirtier than when she left). 

During long car rides, Rosie would often sit upright in the passenger seat beside me, calmly looking out the window just like a human would. She had this tendency of nonchalantly stabbing her left paw out in the air, not stopping until I’d reach out and grab it with my right hand. And we’d just go driving along, both of us watching the road, holding hands. It melted my heart then and the memory of it breaks my heart now. 

Some of you may remember our story, but I adopted Rosie on July 15th of 2015. I had been volunteering at an animal shelter at the time, and we had somehow managed to find homes for all the dogs at the shelter, either through foster care or adoption, which left our kennels completely empty. So we reached out to other shelters and took some of their dogs off their hands—Rosie was one of those dogs. To this day I have no clue why she was in the shelter system at all, but I’m glad she was, because that’s how she came to be my dog. I had been looking to adopt a dog for myself and had been keeping my eyes open for a really special dog to come through the shelter. Other volunteers and shelter staff began to comment on it before I even mentioned my interest in her, saying things like “Jake, I think you’ve found your dog.” Rosie was so beautiful and so sweet and so gentle and so smart—she checked all of the boxes, and more. The problem was that I was about to leave for a three-week trip to Europe and I had a feeling she would be adopted by someone else by the time I returned home. Luckily, the shelter put a “hold” on Rosie so that she’d be there waiting for me when I got back from my trip. They even sent her to a partner shelter out in the country so she’d have a big, natural yard to play in while I was away, instead of a scary, noisy, city shelter. I had an amazing time in Europe, but from the moment I left I couldn't wait to return home so I could go pick up my new dog. 

For most of Rosie’s life with me she was a city dog, as we lived in Petaluma and Sonoma for about 10 years. But a year and a half ago we moved to the mountains, to the family property that I mentioned earlier, and boy did she love it. Calm, quiet, lakes and streams, mountains and meadows. I didn’t let her roam off leash too often, as by now she was mostly deaf and I wasn’t confident I could call her back or find her if I needed to, but as long as she was in eye sight, I would let her roam around the neighborhood on her own. I’m pretty sure that was her favorite thing to do. 

My best guess is that Rosie was 14 years old when she passed. Her body had slowly been breaking down for a couple years, but significantly accelerated in the past handful of months. I knew her time was near and my plan was to take her back to my hometown to have her put down by a local vet, which would allow me to bury her in the orchard at my parent’s property, beside the graves of my childhood dog, Marvin, and our sweet cats Kramer and Kitka. The plan seemed simple enough in my head, but I found myself unable to call the vet to schedule the appointment. I could barely even tell my parents the plan because I was crying so much. In the end, my dad had to schedule the appointment for me, as I was virtually unable to speak. But even after the appointment was made I began to second guess my decision. I knew her time was near, but was it now? Rosie had plenty of bad days, sure, but she always bounced back eventually, earning her the nickname 'The Comeback Girl.' You would not believe how many nights I said a final goodbye to her, tears streaming down my face, because I wasn’t sure if she’d survive the night. Yet, sure enough, the next morning I’d hear those toenails tapping across the floor as she came to wake me up so we could go for a walk. The Comeback Girl strikes again. 

Even though I was second guessing my plan, I packed the car, made a cozy bed for Rosie in the back, and drove the 3+ hours to my hometown. I am not exaggerating when I say that I nearly turned the car around 10 times, to head back to the cabin and call the vet to cancel the appointment. But for some reason I kept driving. I told myself that even if I arrived at my parent’s house I could still cancel the appointment—nothing was set in stone. 

I was due to arrive at their house on Thursday and the appointment wasn’t until 4pm the following day, so I decided to sleep on it Thursday night and see how everything felt in the morning. When that morning arrived Rosie woke me up around 6am as usual, went out to pee and ate her breakfast. It seemed like business as usual, and I felt such relief… relief that she was doing okay and that I didn’t have to make the decision today. Sure, I might have to make it in a week or two, but I didn’t have to do it today. Yet, for some reason, I still hadn’t cancelled the appointment. 

Rosie had been sleeping most of the day, so around noon my mom and I decided to take her for a little walk to see how she’d do with some activity, and then cancel the appointment if she did great on the walk. But as soon as we started walking it was obvious that something was different. It felt as if Rosie didn’t want to go for the walk, which was unusual. She didn’t have any of her usual pep, curiosity, or sense of adventure that we’d come to expect from her. It seemed like she was just hobbling along out of obligation or obedience, not out of want. For months I’d been looking for signs that she was ready, that she was done, that she wasn’t enjoying herself, and even though we started the walk with the expectation that she’d do great and I’d cancel the appointment, the opposite happened. Everything suddenly felt different to me—as if Rosie knew what I was considering doing and was showing me, clearly, that it was okay, that she was ready, that it was time for me to let her go. I had been searching for clarity for months, and I finally had it. 

So I kept the appointment. 

One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was to dig a grave for the dog that’s still alive, but that’s what I did, tears streaming down my face. Once the grave was dug, I went back inside to cuddle and love on Rosie as much as I could with the last few hours we had left. 

When the time came to leave for the vet, I lifted her up and placed her in her bed in the back of my car. My mom sat in the back beside her, petting her and feeding her delicious treats. Rosie had a sensitive stomach, so we’ve always been careful with what we fed her, but at this point it didn’t matter anymore—she gobbled up every crumb of the leftover pizza crust that we would never have fed her before. From now on I think pizza crust will always remind me of Rosie.

When we arrived at the vet, we checked-in and the vet tech weighed Rosie. For most of Rosie’s life she weighed 50 pounds, but on her final day she was all the way down to 35 pounds. And while that broke my heart to see, it actually helped confirm my decision; this was not a young, healthy dog.

We were then led to a private room where the vet tech placed down a soft blanket for Rosie, and I sat on the floor beside her as we all said our final goodbyes. After a few minutes, the vet came in and injected Rosie with a sedative to make sure she’s calm and painless throughout the second injection that was coming next. The whole time, as I held her next to me, I could feel Rosie’s steady breath on my arm. But, as the vet administered the final injection, I felt her breath on my arm stop. And my heart shattered into a million little pieces. 

My best friend. 

My companion. 

My pride and joy. 

Gone.

We took a backroad home, one that winds through the beautiful valley near our house—the same route I’d often drive with Rosie while heading home to visit my parents. We passed a large herd of elk off in the distance, which always feels special, and eventually were forced to stop the car, as a beautiful peacock was standing right in the middle of the road. As we sat there admiring this incredible animal, we noticed a few other peacocks perched on the fence and roof of a nearby house. Suddenly, out of nowhere, one of the peacocks burst into its powerful peacock song and, in that moment, it felt like the animal kingdom blasting out a final goodbye to my sweet Rosie girl—their own version of a 21-gun salute. 

Once back at the house I lifted Rosie’s body out of the car, said one final, teary goodbye, slowly lowered her into her final resting place and began gently layering dirt over the top of her. Even though I knew she was dead, there was a part of my brain that wasn’t understanding what was going on—it felt as if I were burying my dog alive. I shouldn’t be doing this. Later that night the same part of my brain became concerned that she’d get cold and lonely out there all alone. Which broke my heart all over again. Even now I can’t read that sentence without starting to cry.

A friend recently texted me that when their beloved cat died, they felt closest to him the first few days after he passed. And I felt that way with Rosie. The depth and intensity in which I felt her love those first few days felt otherworldly—as if another realm, or portal, briefly opened up between us, and pure love was flowing back and forth. The feeling was addicting and didn’t want it to ever end. But it did… which felt like another loss. 

I do not continue to write about Rosie as a way of seeking attention or sympathy. I continue to write about Rosie, and my experience navigating my grief, because I’ve been completely blindsided by the amount of people reaching out to me thanking me for what I’ve written—thanking me for putting into words the feelings that they have been grappling with since their beloved pet died. There appears to be a deep need for solidarity amongst those of us grieving, and there appears to be a lot of confusion around the subject of grief. Is this normal? Is this wrong? Am I alone in feeling this way? I am far from an expert, only having truly experienced grief these past four weeks, but it feels as if those of us grieving are reaching for one another—possibly without even realizing it—searching for someone who understands what we’re going through; seeking validation that what we’re feeling is correct, that it’s normal to feel unregulated as the grief courses through us, that it’s perfectly reasonable to be fine one moment and breaking down the next, that it’s okay to mourn a pet as if it were a member of the family, that it’s okay to feel whatever feelings are demanding to be felt, and that it’s okay that not everybody understands what we’re going through.

My greatest fear in deciding to put Rosie down was that I’d regret my decision after the fact. That I’d look back and realize I could have had another week with her. Or another month, even. But I am thankful to say that I don’t feel that way at all. I, of course, miss her terribly, but feel at peace with my decision, and most importantly, I feel like I did right by Rosie. Sometimes, although tremendously painful, the greatest display of love is letting them go.

“I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you; but instead I am deeply honored knowing you spent the rest of your life with me.” — Camille Marcotte