The following was first posted on Saturday, September 22, 2012. Three days earlier, our beloved 17-year-old miniature dachshund, Jeffrey, passed away in my arms. My most popular and commented on post, I share it today, with love, on his 22nd birthday... In my three years of full-time writing, I have written 224 blog posts. This one, number 225, is my most difficult to write. This past Wednesday, at 10 minutes prior to midnight, our 17-year-old miniature dachshund, Jeffrey, died in my arms. It was inevitable; he actually had a disease that, in August 2009, forced his veterinarian to give us a “6 months to 2 years to live” prognosis. Jeffrey outlived that prediction by a year and a month, much to the vet’s astonishment. I attribute his survival to one word: love. He was loved by so many, and he loved so many. And I consider myself a member of a very special club: a group of people who’ve been lucky enough to own a great, loving pet for a companion. There’s something very special about that great fortune, being unconditionally loved by a pet no matter your mood, night and day. Jeffrey was that for us. We brought him home when my daughter, Stefanie, was just 4, and I used to wonder how many levels of schooling he’d see her through. Well, Stef will soon be 22, so he just missed seeing her graduate college, but he celebrated kindergarten, elementary school, junior high and high school graduations with her. Through the years he suffered with different types of illnesses and injuries. Tumors (all benign) on his chest (3 of them), ear and rear end; a separated shoulder when he fell from my arms to the grass; an almost-head injury when dropped by a vet when he was three months old; a fall down the stairs in our home; various tooth and gum issues; a diagnosis at age 12 of a tumor on his liver that turned out to be a spleen issue; and Cushing’s Disease. But through it all he lived, learned how to climb our back deck stairs, gallantly guarded our yard and family, even leaving in his wake a few paths in our yard that shall remain forever. He often shared a small cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with me, or sat on my lap here at the basement writing desk, or on the back deck when I blogged. When his birthday came around every August 7th, a party with cake was always planned by our family and, as we sang “Happy Birthday” to him he, like most dogs, would sing along. Twice this summer, both times prior to 6 a.m., he almost died in my arms, but somehow, someway, I encouraged him back to life, I breathing a sigh of relief as he regained consciousness and breath and started drinking water from his bowl, as if nothing had happened. This past Wednesday evening, though, was much different. Stefanie’s screams and Lucille’s elbow to my side woke me from a deep sleep. “Dad! Dad!” screamed Stef, “Help me please — it’s Jeffrey!!!” After a long evening of labored breathing, he was in her arms, his paws flailing, screaming. I descended the stairs quickly, she handed his frail, skeletal body to me, and I sat on the floor with him. His head shook wildly a few times as he tried to breathe, looking at each of us one more time, and his heart, which earlier had been beating rapidly, had slowed considerably. His breaths were now few and very slow. I looked into his eyes, which were staring straight ahead, his body limp. “I’m sorry Jeffrey,” I said, and kissed his cheek. “We love you. I’m sorry.” The slow patter of the heartbeat ceased, the breathing stopped. He was gone. I looked up at my wife. “He’s gone, Lu.” She and Stefanie cried. I’m crying now as I continue to type. As Lucille prepared a tiny palm cross to be placed on his body, I carried him to his side of the bed, Little Lady (our other miniature dachshund, occupying the other side), placed him comfortably on his sheet, placed the palm cross on his tummy, and wrapped him in the sheet, his head sticking out. Even though he was now gone, I made sure his head was elevated comfortably. That night, I slept in the living room, every so often getting off the couch and walking over to kiss his now cold head, saying, “I love you, pal,” wishing like heck he’d open his eyes and look at me. The next morning, after what was a very rough night for us, we rose early to take him for cremation, which my brother Charlie, who loved Jeffrey like his own dog, offered to pay for (”It’s the least I can do for him,” he said). We thank him so, so much. It was a beautiful day; breezy and sunny. We recited an Our Father and Hail Mary over Jeffrey, and Stef had an idea. “I think we should have him blessed first.” She was 100% right. Finally, we reached Notre Dame Parish in North Caldwell, New Jersey, and my wife spoke with Sr. Carol Jaruszewski. “Let me see if I can find someone to do it. I’ll call you back right away,” she said. A few minutes later, she called back. “Fr. Ken can do it.” We arrived at the parish, parked near the parish center, far away from the street and any traffic, and Stef went in to announce our arrival. A few minutes later, an elderly priest by the name of Msgr. Ken Herbster, walking slowly with a cane, exited the center with Stef, speaking softly to her about his own dogs. We learned later on from my sister-in-law Maria, who often attends Mass at the parish, that he had recently suffered a stroke and almost died, and had returned to the parish with much praise and love from the congregation. He looked into the passenger side window, spoke to us for a few minutes, and then looked at the afghan on my lap. “Is this Jeffrey?” he asked softly. I uncovered my faithful pet’s tiny head and half of his body. Msgr. Ken reached in and, as a few birds sang softly in the neighboring trees, said as he made a sign of the cross on Jeffrey’s side, “Jeffrey, you’ve done a wonderful job. You’re blessed now, and you’ll continue to be blessed with Jesus in Heaven.” Then, he rested his hand on the dog’s side for a few moments. It was a truly beautiful moment; our peace after a very rough evening, a comfort after all of Jeffrey’s suffering. One word describes it: Love. “Can you bless Lady, too?” Stef asked him. Msgr. Ken then rested his hand on Lady’s head. “Lady, don’t be lonely. You’re loved here.” Msgr. Ken then looked at the three of us and, with a smile, said, “Now, share stories about him.” Then he slowly walked back inside the parish center. Shortly thereafter, as we cried once more, we all kissed Jeffrey goodbye for one last time, then handed him over to the vet to be taken for cremation, his afghan, that had kept him warm all his life, to go with him. We decided that since he loved nature so much, loved to lounge in the grass, that we’d spread his ashes over local greenery to aid its growth. The past two days, we’ve shared many stories, just as Msgr. Ken suggested. Luckily, Stef had taken video footage of Jeffrey’s 17th birthday party, and we viewed the film on Thursday. He didn’t sing this year. He had an abscessed tooth which caused the right side of his face to be puffed up, but still he was excited when he saw his cake, his tail wagging slightly when he saw everyone gathered. There have been more tears than laughter these past few days, and many wishes that somehow, someway that Jeffrey might reappear. Our tiny home is a bit quieter, Little Lady appears a bit lonely, and there’s a great emptiness. Still, through it all, I’ve found the strength to speak with Jeffrey — through the clouds, in my prayers. You don’t lose a friend of 17 years and believe that it’s the end. I know he sees me crying right now; continuous, non-stop tears running down my face. I miss him so, so much. And even though I didn’t feel his pain as he was dying, as he looks down on me right now, I’m certain Jeffrey, as he always did, feels mine. That’s the definition of unconditional love. That “wonderful job” Msgr. Ken spoke of? Well, Jeffrey’s still doing it. Love, Steve
2 Comments
This was amazing to read. So touching. I had a dog (Hunter) recently pass, and it felt like I lost a person - a very close one. My routine was thrown off, my heart was broken, and the house felt empty. People don't understand the type of bond you can form with a "pet" - after 17 years, I can only imagine how special he was. Based on this piece of writing I can see he was dearly loved, and truly missed.
Reply
Steve
8/8/2017 10:52:53 am
Condolences on the passing of Hunter, Milton. I feel your pain.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
Steve Sears is a New Jersey based freelance writer
Archives
February 2024
Categories |