Two weeks ago was your last day with us

(CW: Pet loss)

We didn’t know it, of course. Though we knew things were not good. We had a cardiology appointment scheduled that week, we even thought about taking you to the emergency vet on your last day because you were coughing so much, but we didn’t because then you seemed happy. Ok. We decided to wait for Wednesday.

Wednesday wouldn’t come, but maybe, in this one way, it was for the best. You would have hated being poked and prodded, the car ride through the busy streets of Brooklyn. You would have been taken away from me, back to get an ultrasound, an echocardiogram; it wasn’t how you wanted to go. And there was nothing the vet would have done anyway, only tell us it was time.

You had severe heart disease. Four years ago, they told us you would only make it a year. You wouldn’t have that. You knew we needed you too much. You knew that the toddler who you loved to steal food from would grow. That she’d grow into a spirited, vibrant 5-year-old who loved you with her whole heart. That your relationship was much more than stolen crumbs, dropped peas, that you were her protector, since the day she was born. That she needed you, her constant companion, her loving furry presence, her opponent in food battles multiple times a day, she needed you as she transitioned into her big school, then her first year of Kindergarten.

You knew, maybe, that another little person would come. That I would be pregnant again, that I would need your snuggles on my tummy, your presence through nausea, through waking up every couple of hours to pee, through the fear of raising a little one and bringing in another little one in this wild world.

You knew I might really need you this time. You knew that you were the one, above all else, who got me through my PPD the first time, who was with me, always, during late-night feedings, tears on U-shaped nursing pillows, questions of what I’d done with my life—whether I would ever measure up to the vast, expansive space a mother is supposed to take up.

Except I already knew how to be a mother, didn’t I? You taught me.

The second baby went easy on us, of course. She got the memo that we needed a smoother go-round this time. Maybe you are the one who gave it to her, I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised.

But still, we needed you. To teach us how to adapt to becoming a bigger family. To give the toddler the attention she craved while we were wrapped up in all things baby. To be a protector, once again. Always with the children. Breaks were stolen—five minutes on the phone in the other room, a quick shower—you were always with the children. Always in their periphery.

You stayed for us, too. Through mental health struggles, new diagnoses, new medications. Stabilizing, destabilizing, stabilizing again. The work of caring for yourself, of healing trauma while trying to protect two human children from it.

You stayed because you loved us, but really you loved people. We used to joke if someone ever wanted to take you from us, you’d likely go happily! You’d approach strangers, tail wagging, full 360, the helicopter move that was entirely yours, butt up in the air, front paws out, whole body wriggling with excitement, with love. People, strangers, thought you did it just for them. We let them think that. Because in that moment, they were special to you. It didn’t matter that everyone else was, too.

You brought so much joy, everywhere you went. You used to sit in the window of the first apartment we brought you home to, watching the Polish ladies walk to church. Watching your Papa drive home from work, always waving through the window.

You tolerated the dog park, just barely. You offered fellow canines a cursory sniff, before running up to yet another human to love.

You were a cartoon dog, the sort of dog that looks like it’s drawn in charcoal, black and white, smudged around the edges, like your untamable fur. People said you looked like Snoopy, or the dog from PeeWee’s Playhouse. Or so many other little stars. We got asked if you were a puppy—or an old man—through your whole life. We were told, after, that you’d seemed so healthy, so vibrant and full of life. That was just you. That was why it was hard to remember you were older, that your heart was far too large.

It’s not even just the good stuff, but the stuff that annoyed us, too, that sends us grabbing for the tissues. It’s the fact that the bathroom tile should smell lightly of your pee. That doors should not be closed, ever, because you would not allow it. You had to be with everyone, always, and a closed door meant scratches to go in, scratches to go back out. Our rental has the marks to prove it.

It’s those first tender days of grief, when we gave the baby a piece of cake in an open bowl, because you weren’t there to try and steal it. You loved cake. Loved mango. Adored edamame. Adopted to the toddler menu quite well. Wanted every one of their finger foods.

It’s not the good stuff, or the annoying stuff, it’s all the stuff. It’s the way you slept between my legs every night. The way I still check for you under a blanket before getting in. It’s the growl you offered every time Daddy’s key turned in the lock, until you were sure it was him. It’s the tap-tap-tap of your paws, nails that were so difficult to cut. It’s the sound of the 5-year-old yelling “FARLEY!” because you snatched a piece of her mango.

It’s every hour, every minute, every inch of our space, of our life. A life built with you in it, you the constant, since we brought you home ten years ago, fresh from the rescue. Since you immediately settled in, bonding so perfectly with us.

It’s the fact that we owe our family to you. That we couldn’t have made it without you.

We love you, Farley. You were a GOOD BOY. The best boy.