My Best Friend…the end.

On February 8, 2012 at about 3pm my husband and I gave our 17.5 year-old Chihuahua, Pica, some peace and freedom from pain. She had been a robust ten pounds just a few months earlier and Wednesday we didn’t want to weigh her because we knew she probably was less than six pounds. Our Veterinarian was so kind. He gave us as much time with her as we wanted. After he gave her the sedative, she started breathing easier and slowly went to sleep in my lap. I watched her chest go in and out smoothly. She was finally resting, as she had not been able to do for over 24 hours. We watched her breathe, we stroked her, we told her we loved her, we called her all of the nicknames we had given her over the years like Baby, Pica Poo, Boogie, Monkey Face, etc. It was comforting to us because I now realize she probably couldn’t hear us. Then Dr. Houston came in and sat next to me to administer the Phenobarbital that would stop her heart. There was an involuntary bodily reaction to breathe a couple of times more and then her chest stopped moving. I held her in my lap a few minutes longer and we continued to stroke her and kiss her and say our goodbyes. Then I spread out her “Winnie the Pooh” baby blanket with my left hand while holding her limp body in my right hand. I gently laid her body in the middle of the blanket and carefully folded it around her. I took back the edge that was covering her head and kissed her once more and whispered “I love you my precious”. Then we called in my good friend Beth who works at the Vet clinic to carry Pica to the back of the clinic to await the arrival of the people from “My Pets At Rest” pet crematorium. I knew Beth would find a safe place to put her body. Beth had tears in her eyes. She had helped take care of Pica since 2006. Dr. Houston came back in and assured us that in the six years Pica had been his patient he knew we had done everything we could for her and even now, this was the right thing to do. Pica gave us so much joy. It is so very hard to let go. Everywhere in the house there is some reminder of her from the dog food I had cooked for her in the refrigerator and freezer to her poop in the front yard to the picture of her, sleeping on our bed, on my computer desktop. It has been two days and we still cry each time we remember something she used to do. I remember we would give her a bath, which she hated, and afterwards she would race around the house till she was almost dry. When we took her to an open field she would run to me and as I touched her she would turn around and run towards my husband. Back and forth she would go until she was tired. At about 10 pm each night she would come down the hall, stand in the doorway to the living room and bark that it was time to come to bed. Before she got too sick, she slept with us, her back to my back. Occasionally in the middle of the night she would turn over and knead my back with her paws, almost like a cat, before she went back to sleep. When we lived in Lancaster, CA Pica and I would walk to the Starbucks every Saturday morning so I could get my caffeine fix and she could do her morning poopie and pee. At home she loved to fetch her toy that had a squeaker inside and she would push it up against a hard surface and make it squeak over and over. I never taught her to do any of these things. They were all her invention. She was afraid of thunder and fireworks and paced and panted through loud storms and on July 4^th each year. When we drove the moving truck from CA to MS, she sat on a thick blanket and sniffed all the interesting smells, through the air conditioning vent, along the route we drove. Pica even rode in an airplane from GA to CA. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience for her. I really hope there is a good reason that dogs don’t live longer because I can’t think of any good ones right now. Sometimes nature sucks! I enjoyed Pica a lot longer than most dog owners do and I am grateful for all the gifts she gave me, even the stinky ones. It will take a long time for my husband and me to get used to the silence and emptiness. We have holes in our hearts where Pica used to live.