On the death of a pet

Thandi passed away November 16th, 2009, 6 months shy of her tenth birthday.

I was with her when she drew her last breath, my hand caressing her head. My scent was the last thing she smelled, my voice was the last sound she heard and my face was the last sight she saw before she slipped away into eternity. I had already made the decision to end her suffering, and was preparing to take that last drive to the vet; but in her final act of love, she spared me the heartbreak of saying goodbye in a cold and clinical room with bright lights and antiseptic smells. She died in my arms at home, her muzzle in my lap, my tears laying wet on her fur.

She suffered a great deal in her short life. Her epilepsy was the worst the vets had ever seen. She had multiple seizures every 6 weeks from the age of 2, more frequently towards the end. She almost died from pancreatitis. The drugs she took sapped her energy and weakened her legs. In the end she was slipping into the indignity of incontinence. People who knew her well, even her vet, remarked how lucky she was to have been adopted by me. But, really, I was the lucky one. I was the one who had the great fortune to have been the object of such pure and unconditional love, to share a connection with another being so profound that words were unnecessary. Every day I got to look into her eyes and see not just a reflection of who I am, but the promise of who I could be.

When asked, some will say after a pet has died, that along with the sadness, there is a guilty sense of relief. They look forward to a life without the obligation of daily walks, or the inconvenience of finding a pet sitter for a weekend away, or the restrictions on longer vacations with the worries of pet boarding. Yes it is true that life without Thandi will be less expensive, and less inconvenient, and less worrisome, and yet…and yet I would give up every one of those free tomorrows for just a single burdensome yesterday.