JANUARY 29, 2019

One year ago today, my gut told me it was time. It was the day I’d dreaded and feared for Farley’s entire life. Even with as many hurdles as we jumped together, and despite all the “mom things” I did throughout his high maintenance, complex existence, I was, for 13.5 years, SO unsure about whether I could handle the end, or as I thought it would be, my last mom job before signing off.

Farley was my first puppy whom I saw through his whole life, beginning to end. You know, the first dog I adopted that didn’t become my parents’. In many ways we grew up together and he molded me into who he needed me to be: a responsible and attentive grownup, and I molded him into a world class snuggler and nap taker.

We were well matched. He was just as neurotic and strong willed as I, and he’d do things just to piss me off when the day didn’t go according to his plan, and I learned that butting heads with a dachshund is a futile endeavor. He taught me unconditional love.

His golden kibble and all his prescriptions weren’t cheap. He had to be hospitalized several times, so I prioritized always having enough money in my savings account to pay for an unexpected humdinger of a vet bill. I put his needs before all others, though I didn’t think about it that way at the time. He taught me to be selfless. He taught me to put on my big girl pants. He taught me to be a mom.

In the summer of 2015 when my entire life was upended and I was at the very beginning of what I now know is a vestibular disorder, Farley had a raging case of pancreatitis and almost died. Even though I couldn’t work at the time, I used every cent I had to save his life, and then the pickle club was born. So many of you came to our aid and bought pickles, over and over. Farley helped me see how much we are loved. I saw the kindness and the beauty of humanity during one of the hardest times of my life, and I’ll never forget what you all did for us.

We were fortunate to have our dear friend Sydney come to our rescue several times. When I was at wits end with seizure control, she swooped in and opened her clinic to us on a Sunday, evaluated him and told me about synergy, a topic covered on a day when our vet must have missed class. She put him on a second seizure preventative, and that’s when we started “two timing” our vet. In his last years, he had the fewest number of seizures ever, and his best quality of life thanks to Sydney. Farley taught me it’s okay to feel vulnerable and accept help from friends, and to bloody well just be grateful for it. He also taught us to join Costco because that’s the cheapest place to get Keppra, and 10% cheaper than that when you’re a member. lol

And so, as I sat there in the final moments of his life, holding my baby for the last time, my body was overwhelmed by emotions—I felt every one that day. We had just returned from Richmond where Sydney, once again our hero, evaluated him and agreed with me that “it was time.” I trust her and knew she’d give it to me straight. She spared me the proleptic burden of wondering if I made the right call. I felt emotions in juxtaposition: bone chilling sorrow and peace; pride and gratitude; wonder and despair. His whole life was visible to me from a new and somewhat omniscient view; I saw it in its entirety. And then I remembered. I remembered the day we brought him home, having known the instant I saw him that he was MY dog. He was a tiny 3 pound baby who was absolutely GOING to sleep in the bed. I remembered everything like a flashback in a movie, and all those precious memories rolled out of my eyes, down my cheeks and onto my helpless little baby as I held him and kissed the spot on his head that my lips fit in like a key in a lock, that I’d kissed at least a million times, and I realized that in a few short minutes, those memories would be all I had left of this boy who consumed my life and my heart for all 13.5 of his years on this earth. I completely forgot about all my anxieties because I was present in the moment doing what needed to be done for my little boy.

In his death, Farley taught me that I was wrong all along: I CAN do it; I AM capable of rising to the occasion when the going gets tough, summoning courage and doing what has to be done. Farley taught me that I am absolutely NOT DONE being a mom because I have a lot more love in my heart that cannot just sit in there undistributed. He taught me that the sorrow at the end is just the price we pay for love and that it should not deter us from opening our hearts and doing it over and over and over again so long as our hearts keep beating.

The outpouring of love and hugs and messages and cards and texts and flowers and chocolate and stories of understanding taught me that so many of us are connected and bonded by this experience we call grief, that I wasn’t alone in my feelings, that the pain would eventually be easier to bear, and that in EVERY hard part of life, in the midst of the darkness, there is always a bright light shining like a beacon and calling to me; there is infinite good to balance the bad and the difficult, and it is profoundly comforting when a friend cries with you (looking at you Michelle).

I learned to grieve and I mean REALLY grieve in my own special Ani way. I wrote letters to everyone who helped us (and hindered us) at the end. I old-fashioned-style CC’d all my thank you letters to the hospital director in the hopes the gals would get good reports at their next reviews in addition to receiving my thanks. I signed all my letters “Farley’s mom”. I wanted them to know about my boy, the boy they’d only met briefly and on his absolute worst day, and I wanted them to know how much we loved him and how full of life he was. I wanted them to know they helped me by giving him a peaceful and loving sendoff into the great beyond, and how they made the denouement as okay as it could possibly be. I didn’t have to have bad feelings about them or how they treated us, or regrets about what I “should have done”. I could just grieve my little boy, and THAT was a gift worthy of a thank you letter.

The greatest gift I received in his absence was a dream. He came to me and let me hold him — I felt him the same way I felt him in life— at a time when my arms and my lap were feeling so empty. It was a source of comfort and wonder and magic that I’ll never forget as long as I live.

So here we are, precisely one year later and I am BACK in the stinky trenches, squeaky toys all over, baby gates to trip over, and babies to kiss! I am so lucky to have happy foster puppies who NEED me, chasing each other around the island, probably spreading fungal spores lol, as I reflect on the year gone by. Fostering has assuaged a huge lingering fear I had: could another dog ever “feel” like MY dog? Like could I be Mom to anyone besides Farley Eugene?! Well what a dumbshit worry that was — they ALL feel like my dogs when they come here, and that’s how I treat ‘em! I have fallen head-over-heels in love with EVERY ONE so far. Yes, it hurts to give them back, and yes I’ve considered packing them in the car and skipping town (kidding!) but nothing will hurt as deep as losing my little boy. And if I made it through that, I can make it through just about anything.

I still miss you, Little Bud, but Momma’s doing okay. Come back for a dream visit, will ya?

Another part of my grieving process was making a video of his life. Looks like YouTube hasn’t nailed me for copyright infringement yet, so here it is. Many of you are in it.