My sister, Diane, and her husband, Perry, had adjusted to Elvis’ new normal: aimless wanderings and bumping into walls. He’d faded to a shadow of his gopher-chasing self. Still, no one thought the 15-and-a-half-year-old rescue Boston terrier-Pug mix was checking out quite yet.
Three weeks ago, Diane and Perry kissed Elvis goodnight. At 4AM the next morning, Diane roused to Elvis’ nails clattering frantically on the floor and his plump little trunk thudding into walls and doors. Again. And again.
Diane set Elvis on the bed and swaddled him in blankets. He, thrashed and moaned and whined, a being in intractable pain. Heart racing, my sister rang an urgent care vet. After a brusque reception and the vague promise of a returned call, another animal care provider whose heart was all-in flew to Elvis’ side.
During the bedside exam, Elvis bleated and recoiled to gentle probes. Long strokes on his fur soothed him. Elvis turned his head toward his beloved parents. The shades of oblivion weighted his eyes. Elvis likely suffered a stroke or some other severe neurologic insult. His prognosis was grim. Under a river of tears and the vet’s loving sleight of hand, Elvis crossed over the Rainbow Bridge.
In the vacuum left by Elvis’ absence, Diane and Perry muddled through their morning. They stared vacantly at where Elvis played, slurped, snuggled and whipped his head around, flashing his “feisty face” to whoever scratched his squiggly butt.
“We knew this day was coming,” my sister gently sobbed as she broke the news. “But we never thought it would come out of nowhere. It’s like we got socked in the face. We keep looking for Elvis in all the places he’s supposed to be.”
Elvis (left) and Lilly, our Boston terrier; BFFs forever (2014).
My family’d been clobbered by two-fisted grief. Anticipatory grief raised its amorphous fist about 18 months ago when Elvis’ trot slowed to a waddle and he nipped at imaginary bugs. Then, three weeks ago, imminent death shook its defiant fist in my family’s face. Ever since, the pangs of Elvis’ death have surged like pain from a phantom limb; pangs amplified by an exploding neurological bomb.
When a fur baby’s mind and body wane, those of us who can afford it — and even those who can’t — often pay a premium for meds and top tier care. Despite these interventions, animal companions may die. Sometimes quickly. Or, they limp to the precipice of death and look to us for permission to leave.
Many grieving pet parents describe that “knowing look” pets give them when their time is close, but their body can’t surrender. This is when we’re called to a higher love. And it’s hard to trip the phenobarbital when our instinct is to squeeze out just one more minute in which to express a lifetime of love.
My sister and brother-in-law answered that call to higher love. They didn’t “play God;” they acted responsibly and with compassion.
Anything left unsaid will hover; an ache in longing’s belly, a sweet tug of the heart, a welcome phantom who’ll press his Monkey Face in the nook of Diane and Perry’s backs — and unclench their fists of grief.