What about Jack?

Our good buddy Jackie-Boy has written his last blog. On January 5^th his gentle heart stopped beating, and he fell to sleep. All of us began grieving the minute we made the appointment, but no one suggested we reverse the decision.

Earlier, Jack and I had shared a last walk, crunching our way around the neighborhood on icy snow, taking our time. For once I didn’t hurry him with, “C’mon, Jack. Let’s keep moving.” He stopped and sniffed to his heart’s content, though his heavy limp revealed a shoulder that was more painful than ever. But the frosty cold and 21 degrees was his dream weather.

Once at the vet’s office with Birgitta, Emerald, Louisa and her boyfriend Teddy, Mary, and me, he sniffed his way around, wagging happily and returning to each of us repeatedly for loving pats. Even after we moved to a private room, Jack continued to do well. The rest of us, though, deteriorated fast. It was hard to see the white blanket lying on the floor, though we were told he didn’t have to lie on it — his choice.

After that, our tears began to fall, and an invisible blanket of sadness wrapped around all of us. Dr. Mike, Jack’s vet, is exceptionally gentle and had been Jack’s friend for years. He’d given him an overall assessment several months ago and hinted back then that this day wasn’t too far off.

The scale indicated Jack had lost seven pounds, down to 72. None of us revealed, though, that just before coming to Dr. Mike’s he’d eaten two lamb shanks, a gift from his ever-thoughtful “Aunt” Mary. His tummy had never been happier — and there wouldn’t be time for an upset stomach.

Patiently Dr. Mike took us through the details of what was ahead and answered our questions. And then it was time… one injection to coax him to sleep and a second to stop his heart.

Jack, always a patient patient, didn’t even flinch as the first one was administered, but within a few short minutes his steps began to wobble like someone who’d had too much to drink. He walked over to the white blanket and plopped down right in the center of it, a wise choice. Kneeling in front of him, I petted, hugged, kissed, and loved my pal in every way I could, as the others did, too. Then, fully relaxed and feeling no pain, he slowly closed his pretty brown eyes.

“Take all the time you need,” Dr. Mike said. “I’ll come back when you’re ready.”

Wetting his fur with our tears, we loved on Jack and hung onto our last moments with him. But then it was time for the doctor to come back for the final step. Jack didn’t move when an IV line was inserted into his leg and the last drug put in. Though we’d been warned he might open his mouth, gasp for air, shudder, pant, or lose his bowels, none of that happened. He just slipped away without any movement at all – a good dog, even in death.

As for the rest of us, we couldn’t stop crying. Leaving the room while Jack remained on the white blanket was awful. Carrying his collar out without him in it hurt terribly. And as we arrived home to his footprints in the snow, my sobbing just wouldn’t stop. But that was only the beginning.

All the next day I stayed in my pajamas, something I haven’t done in 70 years. Unable to deal with dismantling Jack’s bed, washing his bowls, or putting his leash away, I just cried and cried. I’m fairly sure part of it was the history Jack and I shared with Nate. Six years ago when he died, Jack had moved in close with cuddly comfort. Though I still can’t explain it, my tears that day were somehow linked with fresh sadness about Nate, too.

The second day after was better, probably because it had to be. Birgitta, Emerald, and I boarded three consecutive flights on a 20-hour travel day that took us to Kona, Hawaii, and the University of the Nations there. [ Next post…. I promise.]

In the mean time, we’re thanking God for our dear pal Jack and the gentle way he left us. As we said goodbye to Dr. Mike that day, he hugged both Mary and I and said, “You’ve just given the kindest gift of all to your dog.” And though it still hurts, I know that’s the truth.