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Saying Goodbye
by Beth Deaderick
3/26/05
The past few days, I had noticed Belle doing a lot of abnormal things: drooling a lot, not eating like she used to, and showing very little interest in getting the paper with my dad or going into the woods with me. Now I know why.
My dad took her to the vet's office yesterday to get her checked out (at the time, I was out of state, searching for an apartment). As my dad sat in the waiting room, the drool started showing traces of blood. Belle was weighed: she had lost 6 pounds since she hadn't been eating much lately. When our vet inspected Belle's throat he discovered a tumor on the very back of her tongue that was half the size of a baseball. Belle began bleeding because the tumor had ruptured. They took x-rays of her throat and found that the tumor had spread to Belle's lungs. From this point, there were only two options available to us.
The first was to remove her tongue. She wouldn't have been able to eat on her own, and she wouldn't have been able to pant (which is how dogs cool down...and being a black dog in South Carolina's climate wouldn't have been very fun). Then after that, she would only have 2 weeks to live.
The second was to put her to sleep. Which we did at 4pm yesterday.
...which gets me thinking. What was I doing yesterday at 4? I was on the interstate coming back home. I was singing Japanese karaoke in the car without a care in the world, except matching pitches with the singer and ignoring the strange looks from other people in their cars.
Belle was always a sweet little dog. She used to follow me everywhere. Even when she was a puppy, she felt the urge to chase the car, as if she could somehow convince us to stay and not leave her behind. She outsmarted us many times with the fences we had to install for her safety. She loved chasing squirrels and the occasional deer in the backyard. She barked at the cows and horses that lived on neighboring properties - and peed on herself when they got too close. She crawled under the bushes during a storm for safety, and looked inquisitively at the cold white stuff that rarely fell in wintertime. She fought many times with our neighbor's annoying dogs whenever they came into our yard and marked her territory. She often lost, but I always nursed her wounds and told her she was a good dog for her effort.
I always considered Belle as my little sister (since I was the younger of two daughters). The looks she'd give me will always stay with me: the look of triumph when she had finally caught a squirrel; or the look of absolute torture when she found herself stuck in a bathtub, soaking wet with shampoo that would soothe and heal her sensitive skin. She was my only companion in the worst times of my life. When I felt like crying, I'd sit on the back porch, and she'd come to my side and lick my tears. When I was happy or excited, I'd ruffle her fur and watch her shake it back into place. The days when I wouldn't get out of bed, my sister would take her inside and show her where I was. The licks and stinky dog breath could wake even the dead from their eternal slumber. She easily became jealous when I played with my mice or hamsters and would often walk the other way when they came out of their cage in the garage. She was camera shy, not knowing that the flash of the camera wasn't dangerous in any way.
When she lost most of her hearing, she could still tell when I was upset. We developed hand signals for "stay," "come," "sit," "no," and "good girl." The latter of the five was the one given most frequently. She loved going to the vet's office. The vet techs always told us what a good and well-behaved dog she was, from having to take her temperature, to treating her heartworms.
My fiance will never be able to have another conversation with her when he visits. And I have lost my dearest friend. You'll never know how happy Belle was to see him. The little prance she'd do when he came over was something she only did for him. I've only seen her do that one other time, and that was when I came home from Utah after being gone for five months. I think that deep down, she knew how much I love him and immediately considered him as a family member, even before we became engaged.
And through it all, we never figured out if she was spaniel-chow, spaniel-black lab, or spaniel-chow-lab. She was always a mystery. I guess when you're born on Halloween, you're forced to take on that mind-set.
I cry every now and then. It's only natural, afterall. But now I know she's not suffering. I picture her running through flowery fields in dog heaven with a full coat of hair on her chest, since she hadn't had that for years because of her skin condition. When Belle reached her 13th birthday, I started to prepare myself for her departure. Dogs don't normally live much longer than that under normal circumstances. But I never expected it to happen like this. It's just too sudden for me. I wasn't prepared for it. I assumed that her drooling was because of a lip or gum infection or something. But a tumor?! But now she's resting peacefully.
I look out my window and I just can't get used to not seeing her sun-bathing on the back steps or sleeping with her little head hanging out her doghouse and cedar shavings clinging to her fur. I walked outside today to get the mail and I actually called her name because I couldn't find her. Then it hit me. She's gone. My best friend and little sister is gone. I must have cried for an hour after that. I can't imagine my life without her, even though I'm living it right now. All I have left of her are crazy little pictures of her and a stuffed animal that was her spitting image. I know I'll be holding her close when I go to sleep for the next week or so.
Right now, I'm just trying to remember the happy moments with her. But what I really can't stand, is that this is the only way I'll ever get to say goodbye.
I love you, Belle!
October 31, 1991 - March 25, 2005
Comments would be appreciated by the
author, Beth Deaderic
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