It has taken me two weeks to get to the place in my head and
my heart where I can sit down and write this.
Sweet Simba left this world at approximately 10 a.m. on June
26, 2012. She left behind many wonderful
memories that I will be able to look back on some day and smile. For now, all I feel is the ache of the
Simba-shaped hole that is left in my heart.
One of my friends gave that description, and it is very accurate. I know that eventually the jagged edges will
smooth and the pain become tolerable, but there will forever be a hole in my
heart where the memory of her resides, just as there is for each of the beloved
dogs who came before her.
She began her downhill journey the Friday morning before,
when upon waking, we found she not only could not get up without assistance
(which had been going on for a few weeks now when not on a rug), but could not
even walk. Her back legs were crossed
and had to be manually pulled apart into position by one of us, and we had to
support her back end with a sling made from a towel. The ultimate indignity – to have to be held
up while you try to take care of your business.
Concerned, we called the vet.
By the time the vet arrived that afternoon, Simba had
regained the ability to walk on her own, albeit sometimes with a sideways gait
and always with the drop-foot dragging of her left back foot. She seemed to have rallied, however. She was eating and drinking just fine. And her bodily functions seemed fairly
normal. The vet agreed, however, that
she most likely was at the beginning of her journey to that other place.
She did fairly well until Saturday, when she seemed to start
to spiral slowly downhill. She was still
eating, but not more than a few bites at a time. We both moved out to the living room to sleep
that night, Pete on the couch and me on the recliner. We had moved her bed there to put her closer
to the door when she needed to go out. By Sunday evening, she had stopped
eating and drinking. She had no interest in anything, not even her favorite “baby.” We decided to move her bed back to our
bedroom and to call the vet in the morning if she was not better.
I woke up at 2 a.m. and realized it was too quiet. There were none of the “Simba sounds” we had
become accustomed to in the last few months.
No coughing. No thumping around
trying to get comfortable. No “I need to
go out” whine.
“It’s too quiet,” I whispered, thinking Pete was sound
asleep. To my surprise, a quiet voice
next to me replied, “Do you want to turn the light on and check on her?”
We found her lying on her bed at the foot of ours, still
conscious, but completely unresponsive.
Her breathing was labored, and she would give an occasional
uncomfortable groan. We knew she was
leaving us. The dilemma was whether to
carry her out to the van and transport her to the emergency vet about 30 minutes
away or to wait until morning and have our own vet come out to the house to
help her gently slip away from this earth and the pain she was in.
We decided we didn’t want her to leave this life in a cold,
sterile clinical setting, so we put down a futon and a couple of blankets and lay
down beside her to wait for the dawn. It
was agonizing watching her obviously in pain, but it felt like the right thing
to do. She deserved to die at home, on
her own bed, surrounded by those who loved her.
That’s how I hope it will be when my time comes. Around 6:00 I could take it no longer and
made a call to our vet. I knew he would
not be in yet, but left a message for him.
I went to make some coffee while Pete stayed with Simba. Belle and Elwood wandered in and out of the
room to check on her. I think they knew
what was going on. Belle, the ever
domineering sibling, was uncharacteristically quiet and gentle when going over
to her. At one point, Pete had to leave
the room for something, and I was lying on futon next to Simba when I felt something
furry bump against me feet. I looked up
to find Belle sitting at my feet, with her back to me, staring down the hall,
for all the world looking like she was standing guard.
The vet finally arrived that morning and confirmed what we
already knew. Simba was dying. He let us say our good-byes and helped her slide
quietly away into a world where there is no pain, no suffering, and where old
gals become young again. Tennis balls
and stuffed “babies” abound, along with other four-footed companions to romp
and play with.
“Crossing
Rainbow Bridge”
may seem a bit of a cliché way to put it these days, but I like the picture it
creates. A sunny, happy world, free from
worldly cares, where old friends can meet again some day. So, Simba, I will miss you greatly. I will continue to grieve for a while and
mourn your loss. But I am happy that
there is a place where, someday, I will meet you once again Over the
Rainbow.
Love you always.
Mommy
R.I.P. Sweet Simba, Forever my Boogie Girl
June 26, 2012
