On our last morning together, I was in the middle of a nice patio cry when Stella came out and nudged her big, wet nose onto my thigh.
This had always been my lab retriever’s way of politely asking to get on the furniture — an indulgence she’d been struggling with more as she got older. For whatever reason, though, her big ass was determined to get on the patio couch that day.
Of course, I practically tripped myself springing into action. I put one of my firm outdoor pillows down on the ground; which she understood to be a step because she’s a smartypants.
I thought she might give up after failing her first attempt, but she just backed up, ready to try again. I stacked the second pillow on top of the first to give her more of a boost.
This time, her front paws made it onto the couch. She was now stuck in a half-standing position, tail wagging furiously. You’d think she did it on purpose if you saw how excited she was by this victory. From there she could see the whole parking lot, her favorite show.
I was still crying, but now I was laughing as well — one of those bittersweet, unhinged-looking cries. Stella looked back at me, panting with effort, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.
In that moment, she wasn’t old, she wasn’t tired — she was just her, glowing with delight. Beautiful.
I lifted her unsteady, still-wagging booty the rest of the way onto the seat, where she plopped gratefully. As she surveyed her kingdom, I swear she was as proud of herself as I was of her.
And I was always so damn proud of her. Even if she had to get down 5 minutes later when she saw another big dog and they both started barking.
Screw it, it was her last day. Go off, girl.
Soft landing
Last Sunday would have been Stella’s 11th Gotcha Day. It was also the day after we picked up her ashes.
To celebrate her beautiful soul, my partner and I took our Shih Tzu, Gizmo, to a gorgeous dispersed campsite in the mountains where I love to hike.
We built a fire, told stories, drank a few beers, and cried in awe at an unexpected meteor shower.
I awoke at dawn and read while watching the sun rise over the peaks, drinking still-warm coffee from a thermos. Gizmo, burrito-ed in a blanket, snored comfortingly in my warm lap.
It was peaceful.
As we left the site, we stopped to explore a nearby trail on foot. We came upon a scenic spot and I reached into my backpack for the ornately carved box holding my best friend. My partner hung back a bit to give me space.
It took me a comically long time to get through the endless layers of wood, tape, and bags to finally reach Stella’s ashes. This made me giggle in exasperation even as I cried.
When I managed to open the final bag, I fell quiet for a long, searingly present moment. I dipped my fingers into the lusterless grey pile, whispering to Stella how much I love her. That’s all there was to say.
Then I let a bit of her slip from my fingers, scattering into the breeze.
Not ok, but fine
It’s been 2 weeks since we had to say goodbye.
As I sit on the patio with my coffee each morning, I think of Stella’s final victory climb onto that couch. I’m still such a mess, but that memory reminds me: she made it, and I can, too.
I’ve been touched by the response to sharing about losing my sweet girl. If you found me because you, too, are grieving a pet, my heart goes out to you. I’m moved at the thought of others getting to experience such special relationships with their pets. It’s helped me feel connected during a profoundly lonely time.
If it feels good to do so, I hope you’ll keep sharing stories of your sweet ones. I think they’d like that for us.