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Sometimes being a HappiHuman means we must go through some grief - as I am going though right now. 

So if you’ll oblige me, to aid in my healing process, I’d like to share my candid thoughts from a journal entry I wrote about my beloved Berkeley boy - my first dog who was much, much more than that. 

My intention in sharing these private moments is not to make you sad or cry or conjure up hurtful memories of your own. Rather, my intention is to open my heart in the hopes that others will open theirs, as well. 

We must remember that love is the foundation upon which all of humanity stands. And with all the craziness and challenges humanity has faced this past year, I think we could all use this reminder - especially around this time of year.

So as we go forth, remember the cherished people and pets in your life. Rekindle lost connections. Keep your heart open. And return to being human.

Wednesday, Dec 9, 2020

December 9, 2020 is a day I will always remember. 

We say this from time to time when a certain event occurs, but how often do we actually remember it? I know, however, this will not be one of those days lost in history. I will remember this one for many reasons, but mainly because it was the last with my beautiful Berkeley boy.

The evening before, he was not doing well. He sat on the couch between Joe and I so sad and in so much pain. He was shivering constantly and almost dropped while sitting up - his eyes closed and his breathing so shallow. I honestly thought he was going to take his last breath right there and then.

But he fought on. 

We decided to set up our pull-out couch in the basement so he’d be closer to the door and it would be easier to take him out in the middle of the night when he needed to go. And we knew he’d need to go. One of his medications was making him endlessly thirsty, resulting in him needing to pee almost constantly. 

We set up the bed and lay a soft sherpa blanket down on top. He slept on that blanket all night - with me curled up around him. 

Every hour or two he’d wake, stumble over to drink a litre or so, then head slowly to the door. I’d get up, take him out, then lead him back to bed.

At this point, I had to lift his weary body back onto the bed. But every time, he made his way back to that blanket and lay down, falling asleep almost immediately. The shivering would continue despite the shallow snoring noises he made. I’d cuddle in closer and wrap the blanket around his weak body, making sure I always had at least one hand on my boy.

When 6 am rolled around and he got up for what must have been at least his sixth pee that night, I was prepared to make our way upstairs to start the day. Berkeley never wanted to sleep in - he was always raring to go!

But that morning, he surprised me by walking back toward the bed. I hoisted him back up thinking he’d surely not stay, but to my surprise, he lay right back down and fell back asleep. Shortly after 7, he was up again for a drink and to relieve himself, and once again, wanted back in the bed. 

I obliged. 

I figured that as long as he wanted to stay there, resting peacefully and curled up together in the bed, I would allow him to do so - even if it meant staying there all day. Not only would I allow him to stay in bed, but I would cherish my time there with him. I didn’t care about his medication time. I didn’t care about my shower. I didn’t care about anything. All I cared about was the comfort of my beloved Berkeley.

Though this was certainly out of character, and he was not his usual energetic self, begging for breakfast, I allowed him to simply be. I knew he was in pain. And I knew he did not have much longer on this physical earth. And part of me silently wished for him to take his last breath right there and then - safe and comfortable in my arms. 

We stayed in bed that way until almost 9 when Joe came down to find us. 

Berkeley only then got himself up and out of bed - finally willing to go upstairs for breakfast. But he barely ate. We were able to get a few bites of chicken and ham in his distended belly, but that was all. 

Gone was his insatiable appetite - even when it came to his favourite treats and cookies. He’d accept nothing more that we offered. And believe me, we offered him every possible thing we could!

We knew this would be his last day. It was unfair to him to keep him around whimpering in pain; unable to take pleasure in all the things that used to excite him. So we decided to spend that last day doing absolutely anything he wanted.

It started by going for a walk - something he’d been wanting to do for the last week, but was physically unable to do. Instead, over the last few days, all he wanted to do was spend time outside. Not having a yard (or fenced-in area) meant that whenever he wanted (or needed) to go outside, one or both of us would also have to go. Despite the freezing December temperatures, I didn’t care. If my boy wanted to stand outside, the least I could do was stand with him as he sniffed the air and watched the birds and people come and go. That was all he was capable of. And we let him - sometimes taking turns standing out there, shivering with him, and sometimes standing out there together. 

But this last day, he really wanted to walk. So, despite the vet’s warning to not take him for a long walk as his heart could not handle it, we decided that today, it would not make any difference. But would rather give him some pleasure. We started out with the intention of walking a short distance - around the smallest block that lead back to our place - but Berkeley had bigger plans. As he always did. 

He chose the route and lead his very last family walk to say goodbye to his ‘hood. The route he chose was a favourite of his and mine - the most popular walk the two of us did together, and probably the one we walked more than all the others in our neighbourhood combined. Ironically, this walk takes us down the street just below our house - the same street he would gaze at from the picture windows in our living room. 

Normally, this walk would take about 20 minutes. Sometimes it would take slightly longer due to the long uphill climb near the end, especially if he was tired and in need of additional rest breaks. The later had been happening with more regularity - ever since his diagnosis with Congestive Heart Failure 3 months ago.

But today, the walk took us over an hour. Walking at his own snails pace, we let him sniff wherever he wanted, stop when he needed to, pee on all his favourite trees and bushes, and meander through the fields along the way.

It was here, in one of the small fields where he lead Joe, that I snapped a picture of the two of them. A beautiful, magical picture that encapsulated the day brilliantly, complete with fog and wonder all around. 

As we approached home, he stopped and turned to look back. Both Joe and I thought at that moment that he was saying goodbye. Goodbye to his neighbourhood. Goodbye to his trees and friends we’d always meet along the way. Goodbye to it all. 

He knew. 

Berkeley has always been two things - extremely smart and intuitively sensitive. Of course he knew this was it. His poor heart could no longer send life force to the remainder of his body. He was sad, tired, and weak - everything Berkeley normally was not.

We spent the rest of the morning with him. Cuddling, trying to get him to eat (with no avail), and taking him outside for long stretches of time. As the afternoon rolled along, we decided to head out. We stopped at Dairy Queen and got him an ice cream cone - something we hadn’t done in years! 

Our next stop was the dog park, allowing him the opportunity to be off-leash and free. Even though he only walked around the perimeter of the park slowly or simply stood and whined as he watched other dogs playing nearby, this was a place he loved. After that, we brought him back to the day care he frequented to say one last goodbye to his little sister and wonderful staff there.

Then, the time came when we had to make our way to the vet.

Some people may disagree with our decision. Sometimes I second-guessed it myself, thinking he could probably have another day or two with us. But then again, the last thing I wanted was for him to be uncomfortable and in pain. For his belly to continually expand as it collected more bodily fluids that his heart could not pump to the rest of his body. For that fluid to fill his lungs. For him to not eat. For him to be stressed out every time we tried to force medications into his body. For his heart to give in even more. And for him to suffer more than he already was.

Each day we kept him with us would have been only for us - not him. 

And that would have been selfish. Berkeley was the best and deserved only the best. 

Rest peacefully my sweet boy.

Conclusion

If you have a cherished memory you’d like to share, I’d sincerely love to hear it. Please share your memory or thoughts in the comments below. If you’d prefer, you can email me directly.

Sometimes, expressing ourselves either in written or verbal form can help open our hearts and ease our suffering. 

In everything you do, know that you are never alone.