BeerMoney

I freely admit my own determination and grit will in no way ever reach the levels that she naturally possessed, but through thirteen years of witnessing her doggedness, her refusal to give up or to circumnavigate difficulties or challenges because of her physical disabilities—always with good cheer and a happy heart at that—through that she taught me determination and tenacity in dealing with my own trials and tribulations; steadfastness and persistence in achieving my own goals. In her mind, nothing existed capable of curtailing her ambitions. In her spirit, nothing could dissuade her joy for life.

Her unfailing submissiveness and gentleness, even with years of chronic pain, established a level of patience and forgiveness in me that I would not have otherwise achieved. The ever present twinkle in her eye that was her smile, unfailingly blossomed whenever I came home, and the almost genetic hanging of her head when she’d done something mischievous, charmed me, and it was because of these two qualities that I initially fell irrevocably in love, the first time I saw her, in the back of a well digger’s pickup.

Only days later she secretly ate an entire one pound bag of Peanut M&Ms, and, the next day, explosively pooped everywhere in our Bronco while I was inside a store. There are one hundred and seventy peanuts in a one pound bag, I counted. A year later, though sweet and gentle and at seventy pounds still much smaller than the attacker, she protected her grandma from a very bad man—ripping his arm to shreds—in a supermarket parking lot. Doing so probably saved Grandma’s life, at least that’s what the police later said, according to Grandma (but she knows that Grandma sometimes exaggerated just a little bit).

Even in the end, enduring appalling pain and distress, she stayed true to herself, never quitting. I hugged her gently while she fought for every hopeless shallow breath, every bounding but useless heartbeat, in spite of my urging her to give up— though by then she probably couldn’t hear me. I didn’t deserve her and I’ll never have another girl like her. She wasn’t my dog, and I wasn’t her “human.” We were best friends. Just that simple. She died Friday at exactly six o’clock in the morning as the sun rose over my shoulder. The twinkle was no longer there because in the final hours she drowned in her own fluids from blood that had built up in her lungs because the medicine just didn’t work anymore, and for the first time in her life, she was afraid. Bad hips at four, three legs at ten, aggressive cancer at twelve and congestive heart failure at thirteen, she happily hobbled through most of her life, never complaining, always smiling. She cost me thousands, but it was a bargain, because she was worth billions. She preferred sleeping outdoors, enjoyed eating bananas and pineapple, and loved salmon with bacon pasta, right up until the last twenty-four hours.

But then came those last twenty-four. Vets in Thailand will not put a dog to sleep, it’s against their beliefs. None I consulted would agree to assist. When I knew it was the end, and she really began to (silently) panic, I cried and wailed and moaned because, well, I am not as brave as her, but mostly because I did nothing to stop her pain or fear. If I hadn’t brought her to Thailand, I could have stopped it, and she would have gone peacefully. There’s a lot of guilt.

But with such a big heart, I know she forgives me for failing her relief from the suffering and terror that not being able to breathe creates, she knows I did the best I could, that I’m only human, and therefore incapable of achieving the level of loyalty and devotion that only a dog can attain.