My co-worker called in sick today because last night she had to put her dog to sleep, lay him down, euthanize him is actually what she said. I was reminded of 2001 when I had to put my toy poodle Sweetpea to sleep. I never considered myself a pet person, but Sweetpea, adopted from doggy foster-care, had apparently grown on me without me knowing it. Sweetpea was a five pound, apricot-white toy poddle (probably a mix, but being adopted, we didn't know her full heritage; we didn't even know her full age). Barb and I bought Sweetpea from a vet when we first moved to the northwest. Barb was missing her little dog Honeybee. At the separation of our an 8-year domestic partnership, Barb got Sweetpea first (I felt guilty). But then custody arrangements shifted as my depression sunk in and Barb lovingly noticed I would be better off with Sweetpea.) She said Sweetpea was really always my dog. I will always love them both for that.
In August 2001 Sweetpea collapsed in my backyard, just dropped over while doing her morning sniff and dump routine. I raced up the steps to lift her shivering body from the over grown late summer grass spot. I didn't know what to do. Vets? Take her to a vet. The closest was Hazel Dell vets. They put her in an oxygen tent and recommended she be transferred to St. Francis, of course, St. Francis; in a past life I had loved his lover Sister Claire. On September 11, 2001 (yes, really, that was the date), I dropped Sweetpea off at my friend David's house to take her to the doggy cardiologist while I taught middle school. I knocked on David's door and he said, "Have you seen the news?" I hadn't. Twin towers, terrorists?, planes, Sweetpea sick, middle school students waiting. I dropped off Sweetpea and returned to my first period class of students, stunned by national disaster. Be proactive. Give them control of an uncontrollable situation. Answer questions. I don't know, but we are all here. My mother knows people in New York. Me too. Pennsylvania, my home state. My dog is dying. We, students and me, brainstormed a Peace Garden that graces Vancouver School of Arts and Academics today.
That afternoon I picked up Sweetpea with the bad news that she had congenital heart failure and the medication would most likely cause kidney failure. That night we watched the news reports, me and my dying dog, alone, on 9/11, and I decided I would never again be without family or community during a disaster.
In October of that year I had to realize that I was keeping Sweetpea alive for me and she would rather be in doggy haven (can't quite grasp the concept of heaven outside of the vacation spas I read about in Sunset Magazine). So I photographed her on my bed with the lace white bedspread and rose petals scattered as I used to do each night I was inseminated. New life. Death. New life. My Sweetpea.
The next day I called my ex-partner to say it was time and I wanted her with me. I took Sweetpea over to David's house again for a blessing (his wife used to have healing powers for me). Then I wrapped her in her favorite towel and took her to St. Francis. Barb and I held her while Barb's new partner waited in the waiting area. One shot. Less than 3 seconds and her tongue lagged in her dropped jaw and she was gone. We wept, shocked at the brevity.
I went home alone, packed Sweetpea's collars and bed for the colleague with small dogs, cleaned the kitchen floor (her domain) twice, cried, cried some more and curled up in my bed missing her furry white heart beat on my pillow above my head. How could I take this life? How could I not? Excruitiating agony.
My colleague today thanked me for giving her a day off. Of course. A death is death. I am outraged that Eleanor and Quinn's dad was confronted with an ideological challenge in the midst of deciding if his girls should be removed from the ventilator or not. Those people had no right to judge. They had no reference to know. I don't know what I would do in the light of the twins. I didn't know what I would do with Sweetpea.
The ICU nurse for the twins called Eleanor "Sweetpea." I sobbed even more, remembering how hard it is to wonder if you are taking a life.
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