Taking down the crate was the hardest part. I wanted to collect every precious drop of DNA to save in the remembrance box along with her collar and toy duck, therapy tags and snippets of fur. I thought of all the times I knelt beside that crate, administering pills and stroking her. As the sides of the giant contraption folded with a loud clang, I remembered the December day when we brought her home. That crate was so big for the tiny, not-even three pound standard poodle puppy. Within hours of sleeping on my chest, she surrendered to the nighttime incarceration. Last summer, when incontinence was added to her list of health ailments, I regretfully took the crate back out of storage, where my old dog once again slept.
It’s been a week since Hannah left us. Between the epilepsy, thyroid disease, arthritis and liver problems, we knew her days were numbered. But that just made us treasure her more. The night she passed, her legs trembled. Her stomach grew swollen. She experienced gastric problems. And then her snout became as cold as ice. It was after 11:00 p.m. when her problems escalated. I called the vet. I could see that a simple pain pill wasn’t going to correct her worsening condition.
My daughter sang lullabies to Hannah as I drove to the Orrville clinic. My son ran his hand down her back, reassuring her in soft whispers.
The Christmas lights were shining on the night my husband and I brought six-week old Hannah home. My children were wild-child toddlers back then. The night she died, a soft rain fell on the black pavement as I navigated the car down the darkened streets. My children looked like adults sitting beside me.
The kind vet, Dr. Yost, assessed her quickly, agreeing that the day we dreaded had arrived. We cried like fools as we memorized the contours of her precious face, kissing her as the sedation took hold.
But her determined heart kept beating. I told her how great a job she had done. I reminded her and the kids of our many adventures. I told her it was time to let go. To please let go.
In the 4,549 days she lived, Hannah loved and protected our family for all but the first 41, when she was a newborn puppy. She performed gallantly in her years of therapy service in the nursing homes. She lay at the bedside of many of our loved ones as they sickened and died. She participated in bite prevention programs with the deputy dog warden. She accompanied me to preschools where the little ones learned to trust my big black dog. She starred in a play, portraying Helen Keller’s dog. She tagged along to my children’s theatre classes where she helped kids overcome stage fright. She rode shotgun in my car nearly every day of her life. She ate countless McDonald’s ice cream cones, and walked thousands of miles beside me.
I know, someday when God calls me home, I will find my beloved Hannah again, waiting for me, just like she waited for me by the back door every day for the past twelve years.
As she lay dying, I told her, if I would have looked the world over for the dearest of dogs, the most constant of companions, I would surely have chosen her.
“You’re my perfect dog, Hannah,” I confirmed.
When her relentless heart finally stopped beating, her legs relaxed into an elegant running pose, devoid of fear and pain.
I knew then, that she had found her way.
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