An Ode to Austin and the Gift of Love and Company

My beloved dog, Austin, died at the beginning of July. He was 15 and had been struggling for a while with cognitive issues (i.e. doggy dementia) and mobility problems. He was on supplements and had monthly acupuncture, which definitely helped. But, he just didn’t seem himself, because he wasn’t himself–he was an older, more confused and achy version. At his last vet visit, we joked that he was like a Subaru, he just kept going. Also, at this visit, he thought the window a door and tried to walk through it.

A year or so ago, I asked my friend Mark, who also cares about Austin and has watched him for me many times over the last couple years to do something for me. I asked him to tell me when he noticed Austin was getting worse. When Daryl was alive, he was another set of eyes to help me navigate caring for Austin, but I didn’t have that anymore. In mid-June, Mark was watching him and texted me to say Austin was falling more, unable to get up as easily, panting more, and, well, was just not as mobile as he was the last time he watched him. Having a trusted friend who cared about Austin give me an honest appraisal of a deteriorating situation was a reality check. 

Fighting sleep on the couch in my dad’s living room, I pulled up some quality of life assessments for pets on my phone and had some very hard realizations–Austin was much worse off than I thought. The questions revolved less around physical displays of deterioration and more around mental/behavioral changes. For example, he did not bark or really care who came in the house when he used to be a vigilant keeper of the realm, he went off quietly to his dog bed if more than a couple of people were here when he used to be at the center of any party demanding affection. While his mobility issues were the most visible signs of decline, there was so much more going on under the surface. All he seemed to enjoy was eating and sleeping, and even sleeping was a mixed bag of being up most of the night pacing and confused. 

Dogs hold their pain differently, they rarely complain, they will go until they just can’t go anymore. I had a conversation with a hospice vet and she said that dogs want to make us happy, to be with us, and it's possible that Austin had stayed alive as long as he did because he knew I needed him after Daryl and my mom died. While I think it’s a little bit of magical thinking, it was also what I needed to hear to let him go. 

It was  one of the hardest and most heartbreaking decisions I’ve ever had to make, how to let my best friend go, the dog who had walked by my side through the darkest period of my life now needed me to walk him to the end. I gave us the weekend to do his favorite things–eating hotdogs and “doggy” ice-cream, slow walks at favorite sniff spots and lots of pets and greeting other dogs. Friends came by to say their good-byes. I was able to make a choice that allowed him to avoid more suffering and that felt like the most unselfish gift I could give.

Dogs fill our day with their little noises and their needs, it’s a special clock ticking down the hours of the day that we keep together.

I spent a month back in Michigan, traveling to our cottage near Lake Huron. This year, having beat back the innumerable “things stored at the cottage,” I was able to realize a dream to have multiple friends come and visit. Daryl’s mom coming over from England to stay with me for two weeks was a special gift, as was having two of my oldest friends come stay, women who have known me over 20 years, before Daryl. And, another friend who has only known me after Daryl. All of them brought me so much love and good conversations and perspective. 

The gift of being alive is how many versions of yourself you will be, and to have friends and loved ones witness that and hold all of those parts of you with love. 

Coming home last month to an empty house with no Austin and, in his place, a recently delivered urn was really fucking hard. I had to start taking myself on morning walks, making myself go outside.  I knew this feeling all too well, the unmooring, the begin-again, the loss of yet another beloved being and the feeling of being untethered from time and self. 

Putting laundry away, I found myself shoving balls of socks, Daryl’s socks that I’ve been wearing, back into his dresser drawer. There are two drawers I cannot seem to empty– his junky man drawer filled with Daryl ephemera: contact lenses, belts, random notes and receipts, swimming goggle; and his sock and underwear drawer where these necessities nestle in quite comfortably. I realize that these things are closest to his body, were necessities of daily life, and the junk drawer the daily end of day emptying.

I can’t seem to let it go, my fear of losing some part of Daryl, some hidden file he has on there, something I’ve forgotten to backup may be there. So, logic follows to hold on to a phone that is rapidly losing memory, making it difficult for me to use apps properly (if at all) and keeping me in some happy past of 2018, Before Cancer, Before Death. The entanglements of this are simple and complex. The fallout from my inability to let this one thing go is nigh. 

Losing Austin also meant losing a vital part of the relationship and life I built with Daryl. As I’ve mourned him and talked about how intense it felt, friends gently reminded me it wasn’t just one loss,, but also the loss of yet another connection to Daryl. They are right, but it is also the last thread to that version of me. For the first time, I wondered if living in Richmond was right for me, if this was really home anymore. Again, my world felt like a place of echoes, like a dream where I was trying to keep up, to find my way back to somewhere.

I’ve been eager to adopt or foster another dog, but also trying to wait, trying to get through this after-time, trying to enjoy the freedom of not having to worry about old dog maladies. But worrying, helping, loving and being loved makes me feel alive. I realized this when my friend called me to walk her dog while she and her husband were away. I wanted to help, to be needed. 

Another friend invited me to a local dog park and it was fun to be outside and watch others play with their dogs. I went to the garden outside of the VMFA art museum and sat under the shade of trees, sipping my coffee and watching the parade of owners and dogs. It didn’t make me sad to see people with their dogs, didn’t make me miss Austin, it made me happy to remember how many pets are loved. 

Now, I run up to dogs and pet them and share my loss with their owners, unsolicited. So far, everyone has kind things to say, or shares their own loss. I wish we were better about doing the same when a human loved one dies. What if we could just run up to one another and openly grieve our dead and be alive at the same time?