All Dogs Go to Heaven

Tonight I took our recently adopted dog for a walk as my dear husband was feeling a bit under the weather this evening. I've been thinking about how nice it is to have a dog in my life again. This dog reminds me of another I knew a long time ago....

I grew up with Muffin. The best dog in the entire world. She ruined me for all dogs. She was loyal, playful, cuddly, easy-going...she was awesome. Muffin was the kind of dog that would spend the whole night with me when I was sick. She would comfort me when I was sad. She was a part of my birthday present when I was 8 years old. She came a few months after our original puppy, Taffy, had to be put to sleep because of a heart defect. I have to tell you that was heartbreaking for a little kid. (And by the way, I did NOT name these dogs. These names were the brilliant idea of my 90 IQ former step-mother. Even at 8 years old I thought those names were terrible.)

Muffin was really smart, too. She learned all kinds of tricks. I taught her every one of them. I always had kind of a gift for that. I taught her to sit, lay down, stay, shake hands and roll over. She was not the best on a leash, but of course this was many years before Cesar hit the scene to tell us all that a dog should not walk you.

She lived to the ripe old age of 15. I was 23 years old when Muffin passed away. I remember the scenario pretty vividly. My dad was in the hospital (again) and was preparing for more blood transfusions. Dad lived with his pancreatic cancer for 6 years - unheard of with pancreatic cancer but he had a rare type. In the last couple of years he would go into the ER several times due to low hemoglobin levels. He was always losing blood and would get really weak and need several pints. This time around was pretty bad and they needed to keep him for observation. He needed about 4 units. If you know anything about blood, you know this meant that he was basically missing half of his blood. Crazy, I know. Anyway, I asked Dad if I could do anything for him. He looked at me and simply said, "Muffin." And I knew what he meant.

You see, Muffin had been getting a little senile. She was having trouble holding her bowels anymore. My dad loved that dog so much. Every evening, as sick as he was, he would clean the basement floor with bleach water after Muffin had used the basement floor as her toilet. She could not be in the house anymore so spent her time in a makeshift pen in the basement. Dad made sure she had plenty of room, food and water, a nice fluffy bed, toys, etc. She had cataracts and had trouble recognizing us sometimes so was beginning to get a little snippy with us, which was SO unlike her.

So, that day from my dad's hospital bed he asked me to take Muffin to be put to sleep.

I said to him, "Dad, I was thinking I'd get you some magazines or something. That's what I meant when I asked if you needed anything."

He explained it like this, "Pussycat, I can't do it. I don't have the physical strength anymore but I don't think I can handle taking her in to do that. I know this is a big favor but I need you to do this for me."

I couldn't say no. This was the guy who had always been there for me. The guy that, in spite of his faults had always done everything he could for me. He asked me this favor and I had to do it.

The day I took Muffin in to be put down it was overcast. Muffin went outside and ran around in the back yard, which is something I hadn't seen her do in a while. I took her for her last walk around the block and she seemed almost peppy. She had a treat (a Pupperoni) and was just really, really happy. I wondered if maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should do it another day. You don't know how hard it was to take her that day, especially seeing the old Muffin again.

I thought I'd just take her in and leave her with the vet but I soon discovered that I just couldn't do that to her. Not after everything she'd done for me. During those times of my childhood that I felt like nobody loved me or I was in the way, she was there to remind me that I meant everything to her. She comforted me through skinned knees, the flu, a broken heart. Now she needed comfort and I was going to give it to her.

I said goodbye to Muffin that day and cried a lot, maybe more than I ever had. And maybe I was crying for more than just losing her but for the knowledge that my dad would never get better. In a weird way it prepared me for losing my dad. Though I'd lost a grandparent already at that point, I'd never experienced anything like losing someone that I lived with every day. Muffin was the first. I imagine her now with Dad in heaven or whatever you want to call it. It comforts me to imagine her keeping him company.

Yes, it's nice to have a dog in my life again. That kind of love is priceless.

Dad's Journal

My dad kept a journal. I guess that must be where I get it from. His were "guy journals" and were before the days of blogging, though. Have you seen those 1 year calendars that you can buy at the drug store? They're fake leather and they're about the size of a Reader's Digest. They have one week per page and have just enough space for "the facts." Yesterday my husband and I cleaned the basement while on our 7th Anniversary "stay-cation." Yes, I know...very romantic. After 7 years married and 11 years together, cleaning the basement for our Anniversary extended weekend sounded heavenly. Trust me. Anyway, I ran across several years of my dad's journal. In his journals he detailed the things he ate, how he was feeling, his exercise regimen, movies he watched, alcohol consumption (bz), phones calls, visits with family and friends, etc. All in one tidy, little 3 inch square.

Just by happenstance I chose the 1993 calendar first and began reading through. That was the year I got married for the first time. I was 19 years old and definitely still Daddy's girl. It's fairly evident, too, because my dad's journal has a lot about me in it. We visited a lot and talked on the phone all the time. It made me smile to see that. It also made me recognize the huge hole in my life that is still there. So, there it was:

February 23, 1993 - Cold out. Up at 5:07AM. Did not fly. Helped Tom tow planes around. After lunch washed 580 till 3:00PM. Sat around till 4:30PM. Home around 5:30. Went to S's to fix toilet - she said I looked yellowish *worried. Stool very hard. Taco Bell. Bed at 11:00PM. No Bz. No Exercise. No Run.

And there it was plain as day. The day our lives turned upside down my dad had come to my apartment to fix my toilet. I vividly remember standing behind him in the bathroom. He stood up from the toilet tank and I caught our reflections side-by-side in the mirror. It was absolutely shocking to see. His skin was so yellow it was as if he had used one of those old, cheap self tanners and tried to wash it off. Remember that stuff? Compared to my skin, he looked positively odd. At the time, I didn't even really understand what jaundice was. I just knew that my dad looked weird and yellow. He brushed it off as though maybe he's had some bad food. According to his journal, the next morning at 8AM he made a doctor's appointment.

By March 2, 1993, the doctors had ruled out Hepatitis and a few other things. Here's his entry from that day:

No Work. Dr. Appt today. Up at 9:30AM. Rod's b-day (60) Not much sleep last night. S came over at lunch. Went to Dr. Appt 2:15 - does not look good. Some sort of scarring on most internal organs. TB, cancer? Not sure. Took blood & urine test. Stopped & got Wendy's hamburg (great) Was real tired. Watched TV. Bed at 11:00. Took pills. Slept good tonight. No Bz. Talked to Mom.

I do love that he took the time to describe his Wendy's burger as "Great" in the midst of all of that scary stuff. It made me sad to read through his journal yesterday. It kind of brought it all back. I remember feeling like I might have been semi-responsible because I'm the one who noticed that he was yellow. I've always been pretty observant. Sometimes I wish I didn't notice everything. And I know it's totally stupid to feel responsible for something like that just for noticing. It was a really confusing time. I was getting married at 19, which was not the right thing for me. My dad was sick and he might have cancer. It was a terrifying year. Dad did a good job of downplaying, but again my powers of observation were a little too strong. And my gift for asking lots of questions....well, it got me to the truth. There wasn't much Dad could hide after all. Can't fool me. He needed my help to get to some of his appointments, so I kind of needed to be in the know. This was just the beginning of the roller coaster ride of Dad's illness that lasted 6 years.

I still miss him every single day.