by Stacy Luckett
Tristan was born Sept 30, 1989. He died sometime between 5:15 pm Dec 23rd and 130 this Christmas Morning. He was showing his age. He had arthritis, and a chronic eye condition. He had a very sensitive stomach, where he could not tolerate hardly any kinds of medicines. The irony of it is, I too am suffering from arthritis, and I too have stomach trouble and cannot take any hardly kind of meds without it making me sick. I often said Tristan took after his mommy.
Tristan was also prone to seizures after he was attacked by a larger dog 6 yrs ago. He was super sensitive to sound, and had a grand mal about once a yr. with several mini ones daily. Lately, over the past few months of his life, he appeared to be confused, and lost, and didn't act like he knew us...he was still friendly, but it just wasn't the same Tristan. Almost like he was having mini strokes.
A year ago, I bought a Yorkie puppy, thinking that when it was time for Tristan to go, at least I'd have her to soften the blow. My feelings changed slightly towards Tris. He became second banana after being the King of my world for years on end. I often said I'd take a bullet for this dog and when he'd die, I'd have to take funeral leave from work and be buried myself. But new puppies demand extra attention firsthand, while trying to settle them into your routine and getting them housetrained.
Tristan never barked much until he got older. Then would bark when he thought he heard something. But, he would bark and bark and bark when his food was being dished out. Even on a good day, this was very annoying.
When Tristan started slowing down, the only thing that would really get him going besides Cassie the puppy aggravating him, was anything to do with food. Whether we were eating a meal, or snacking, he'd start pacing, shaking, begging, barking, whining and panting over your plate. He often got scolded for that.
He also had a passion for eating things in the yard he shouldn't and when the garbage man passed and threw the cans on the ground instead of standing them up, he'd go into them and lick them. This made him sick, the last time in November costing us 400 bucks in emergency care.
That morning on the 23rd, as I came in from working the night shift, I opened the bedroom door where my family of 7 sleep. Myself, My husband, Tristan, Cassie, and the 3 birds. Cassie as usual was waiting by the door, ready for her walk. Tristan was sleeping on a pile of clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed. The light from the hallway shone in directly on him. He was sleeping so peacefully and looked absolutely beautiful and blissful. I started to nudge him with my foot to wake him up to go out too, but, instead just took a few seconds more to look at him. What I wanted to do was pick him up and hold him across my chest like always and breath him in. This relaxed and calmed me even after the hardest of days. I didn't tho. I didn't want to disturb his slumber.
Later that morning when I woke up from my nap, my husband and I were talking tax time woes and how we are going to cut back and save for that miserable time. I said, referring to Tristan's last garbage eating binge, that the next time he did that, we'd just put him to sleep. He was sleeping next to my desk chair and at that moment got up and hobbled out of the room. My eyes followed him and I remember thinking, Gosh, he looks so old. I wondered if he heard me, although we been suspecting he was going deaf.
When lunchtime came, eating burgers and fries, Tristan did his usual "I'm starving" routine but was extra, as Jon called it, obnoxious. He was scolded a few times, then I swatted at him with a paper napkin.
Evening time came. The dogs were usually fed between 5 and 6. My husband was leaving to go get our dinner at the BBQ place. Tris was hopeful but "Daddy" said he'd feed them when he got back. I was going to let him, deciding to take a bath so we could get dressed and do some last minute errands for the holidays.
These were the last memories of Tristan. I never saw him again. While I was in the tub, my mother let him out and forgot him. The weather had turned nasty, and not knowing he had been let outside, figured he was hiding from the storm because he was terrified of thunder and lightning and firecrackers. And the little boy across the street was popping fire crackers. We had all taken notice that Tristan, who wouldn't come out from under the bed until after New Year and firecracker popping season, didn't seem to mind it and even went outside. That was the first time in all his 13 yrs he had ever done that!!!
It had been about 45 mins as best we could figure. We immediately grabbed the flashlights, and went out in the storm. We searched the entire neighborhood. Every house, every carport, every backyard, under every bush, in every ditch and culvert, up and down the connecting street, the empty field behind our house for 5 hours in the pouring down rain and lightning and thunder. The next day, Christmas Eve, we did it over and over and over again starting at daybreak. I was inconsolable. I couldn't stop crying. The rain mixed with my tears. I was sick with grief. We put an ad in the paper, and posted signs. I called animal control every hour on the hour.
I ended up taking an anti-anxiety pill because I was having chest pains and having trouble breathing and catching my breath. I knew it was a full blown panic attack, or I would of asked my husband to take me to the ER. 20 min's later, while Jon and my brother were searching again, the discomfort hadn't eased, so I took another one. This one made me sleep.
At 130 Christmas morning, my husband called my name finally loud enough to wake me. He was weeping. He had found Tristan in the field behind the house where he swears he walked several times. He buried him where his little body rested. I wanted to bring him home but he said it was best he stayed. Tristan had had some trauma. Jon refused to elaborate raising questions about what happened to him. Was it a car? Was it another attack? Was he shot by the kids that always hunt squirrel and rabbit in that field? Did he have a seizure, pass, and something picked at him? Jon's guess is the last one. I'm not satisfied.
So, my memories of the last day of my Tristan's life was him lost in the storm, saying I was going to put him to sleep. Fussing at him for begging for morsels he so loved, not feeding him, and putting him second to Cassie. He took the back burner, often waiting for his pat on the head letting her get first dibs. Also the dread of knowing that however optimistic my husband tried to be, I knew I'd never see him again. Nothing, no matter what, would have kept him away, unless he wasn't with us anymore. It was eerily quiet that first night, as we strained to hear him. The crickets, raindrops falling from the trees, all of us calling, me sobbing his name was his final lullaby.
The guilt I feel for not realizing it would be the last time ever is deeper than I could ever imagine in anything I felt I have done. I wanted it to be different for Tristan. I wanted it to be my decision when to end his pain. I wanted to tell him how much I loved him, and that he was my best buddy, and at times my only friend. I wanted to hold him when he gently fell asleep and kiss that soft spot on top of his head. Rub his ears, which he loved. I wanted to scatter his ashes in my favorite place. But instead, he walked away and left me. I never got to say goodbye. I wish I were with him so I could hold him across my chest breath him and be comforted once again. I might re-emerge when the pain eases up because Jon says he needs me, Cassie needs me, the birds we call Rampart, Aiko, and Mayple need me too much.
Sometimes, when I think I'm okay, I am overcome with such a sense of sadness and I cry and cry. I unplugged the Christmas tree and stopped listening to Christmas music. My Christmas spirit was extinguished when Tristan's life was. Like blowing out a candle.
I miss my Tristan. And will never ever forget I loved him so.