I didn't come to this decision lightly. I didn't make this decision because he was inconvenient in any way. If I had my way, I would have him still. The tipping point was realizing that he was having seizures, each one robbing him of balance and self control. I agonized over it, spent all of last night crying over him and touching him, letting him know he wasn't alone as he slept. I poured my heart out to him, told him how much he meant to me, how much I loved him, how much he had changed my life for the better. I took forty frames of him as he slept in the living room, in the spot where he collapsed after his evening walk. He could no longer stand on his own, his legs having wasted away with alarming speed over the past two weeks. It's insane to think that just two weeks ago he could walk around the block without trouble, and four days later he couldn't make it to the corner.
This morning, I carried him into Angie's office, set him on the ground. He managed to walk to her without any trouble and give her a wet nose greeting, and when we told her our intention, she could only say "you're kidding, right?"
That wasn't helpful at all. The steely resolve I'd built in the hours before his last dawn vanished when she said that. Self doubt crept in and I asked her to do a final exam, if only to see if this was a mistake. She could only find the wasting, he had no seizures in her presence, and then she agreed that perhaps now was as good a time as any. She said this flare up probably would not go away, that the wasting was too extensive and he probably would never regain his legs. Once again, I steeled my resolve and agreed to make today THE DAY.
The whole procedure took less than ten seconds. One second he was there, looking at me and acting nervous, and then the light in those beautiful blue eyes was gone. The grief rushed in, and forced its way out of my eyes. Behind me, James was letting out some crazy animal like sobs, and even Angie couldn't stop her tears. It's been a long year the three of us have spent together, and there we were in his final moment. I had Flo, Frank's other mom on the phone in a video call, she spoke to him as he passed away, telling him all the things she wasn't able to in person. Myself, there were no words to say. I had already told him everything, sang to him, scratched his ears and held him in my arms. All that I could say was how sorry I was that I had to do this, how sorry I was that I couldn't have eased his pain or discomfort in any other way.
When we got home, we set about picking up blankets, beds, toys. We threw out Chinese herbal supplements, packed up unused dog food, set up a care package for a friend who has a new puppy filled with poop bags, treats and a bowl. We rolled up Frankie's runway, swept up all the dog fur, and then I passed out from exhaustion. Hours later after dreams of walks and tennis balls, I woke up feeling empty, desolate. We had pretty successfully removed most traces of his presence, but it was the absence of Frank himself that weighed most heavily. The tears started again, and the cats came to offer comfort, but there was none. Not yet, and not for a while.
I went outside to get some fresh air, held the door open forgetting that there was no Frank coming out behind me. The cats were lined up on the porch, aware I suppose that there was someone missing. Even at this hour, they are out there, waiting like they always do to come with us on our late night walk. I wonder if they would come along if I went alone?
James tells me it will get easier. He is saying all the right things, and I know them to be true. I'm not sure if he's telling me to ease my sorrow or his own. And no matter how much we clean and vacuum, there are too many reminders of our time with him, as short as it was, etched into the very walls of our house.
Twelve hours ago, I let my best friend go. I have no idea what tomorrow will be like, if I'll still wake up at 7:30 thinking I need to get him up and out to pee and to feed him, or if I'll see him through sleepy eyes laying at the foot of the bed waiting for me to rise. I wonder if I'll walk through the house and catch just the faintest Frank smell, or if I'll reflexively reach down by his bed to pet him as I leave for work.
I know at some point, I will only remember the good things, the good times, but right now the only thing I can remember is the moment he passed, the moment I lost my good little buddy, my little 'Poops, my merry Frankster, my little Frankles, my blue eyed baby boy.
Rest in peace and comfort buddy. When we meet again, I'll have banana chips and apple rings in my pocket for you, and a clan of cats to accompany us on our walks.
I miss you.
