The Last Time

The Last Time

For the past few months, as Rosie’s health continued to decline and the end of her life appeared to be approaching, with everything we did I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the last time. 

The last time we went for a walk. 

The last time we went for a drive. 

The last time she saw my family. 

The last time we went to the lake. 

The last time I bought her a toy.

The last time I kissed her goodnight. 

Loving her so deeply, I didn’t want to take any of these things for granted. And this went on for months. 

But nothing lasts forever.

I’m heartbroken to share that on February 27th, after ten and a half years together, Rosie had her last everything. Her last breakfast. Her last walk. Her last car ride. And eventually her last breath. The saddest day of my life.

Rosie’s physical abilities have been worsening for the past couple years, but in the last 6 months it got progressively worse. Although I never received an official diagnosis, I'm fairly certain that Rosie was dealing with Degenerative Myelopathy (DM), which is a painless degeneration of the spinal cord and nerves, effectively disconnecting communication between her brain and her limbs. The deterioration typically begins with the hind legs and works its way forward, eventually impacting the vital organs along the way. If you look up the symptoms of DM, Rosie had each and every one of them.

Whatever the cause of her deterioration, she never lost her determination to do the things she loved. Going for walks was particularly high on her list. But because of her limited physicality, in addition to her inability (or unwillingness) to moderate her own exercise, it became clear that I was going to have to moderate it for her, opting for short, flat routes whenever possible. Eventually even the short routes had to be shortened. But still she never gave up and always wanted to walk further than I’d let her. I love the heck out of her for that.

For months I’ve sensed that Rosie’s life was coming to an end, but because I couldn’t picture her giving up, I knew that the awful decision of when to end her life would fall on my shoulders. And I absolutely dreaded it. I delayed the decision for a long time, becoming her fairly full-time caretaker for the last few months. I wasn’t ready to let her go. The real wake-up call, however, was when I returned to the cabin after being away for an hour to find her on the kitchen floor, unable to get back to her feet. And that felt like a red line for me.

And so, after shedding more tears than I ever knew I was capable of, I made the most difficult and painful decision of my entire life—to say goodbye for the last time.

While Rosie was alive I was preoccupied with all of ‘the last times’ but now that she’s gone I find myself haunted by ‘the firsts.’ 

The first morning not hearing her nails clicking across the hardwood floor as she came to wake me up. 

The first breakfast I didn’t feed her. 

The first walk we didn’t take. 

The first time I’d drop a crumb on the floor and know that she wouldn’t be there to gobble it up. 

Every one of these firsts feels like a dagger to the heart. My life is full of holes that Rosie used to fill. 

I’m writing this three days after her passing. And so far I haven’t been able to speak about her without breaking down. Writing this hasn’t been much easier. I’ve spent hours each day scrolling through all of the photos I have of her, sometimes barely able to see them through the tears. And I can’t seem to walk past her dog collar without picking it up and smelling it, because it still smells like her and I can’t bear to let it go. Sadly, the scent is already fading and I dread the day when it’s gone completely. 

I know that with time the pain will fade—that someday I’ll be able to speak or write about her without beginning to cry—but, strangely, a part of me doesn’t want the pain to fade. I don’t want the tears to dry. I have found comfort in the pain… as if the sadness and the tears keep me close to her.

The moment after Rosie passed I kissed her sweet head for the last time and promised her that I’ll go on amazing adventures in her honor, and that I’ll take her with me in my heart. Her collar, the exact collar she was wearing when I adopted her, will hang from the rearview mirror in my van, so that every adventure I go on a part of her will be right next to me like she’s always been.

Rest in peace, Rosie. The sweetest dog that’s ever lived. 

“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.”― Jamie Anderson

P.S. I’ll be writing more about Rosie and her final hours in the future, and am creating a video of some of my favorite photos and videos of her throughout our lives together. But for now, since I know a lot of you loved Rosie too, I’d be honored if you’d share a favorite memory (or memories) that you have of Rosie.