In late June, we said goodbye to our beloved yellow lab Maggie. We said it again today when we buried her ashes in a field overlooking the ocean. I am struck by how deep the feelings of loss continue to be, and by how much we still feel her presence. Also, with the passage of time, aspects of what her death means to me are becoming clearer.
I did not expect to be writing about this. People lose pets all the time. It is hard to think I can add to the collective dialogue. The topic is also a departure from my usual preoccupation with climbing, sailing, and cross country skiing. But thoughts about Maggie are strongly with me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I remember several years ago when friends shared details of their dog’s final visit to a summer home down the coast. What struck me most was the combination of ritual, elegy, and love. A last shared act, a final gift as they prepared for farewell. And I was struck again when another friend, who spends his days leading one of the world’s largest financial institutions, texted a photo of his family’s departed pet with moving comments on his feelings of loss. Both of these were life events that made enduring marks, and the goodbyes mattered.
For the same reasons that I didn’t think I would write about Maggie in this blog, I didn’t think I would mention her passing on social media. But then I did, and I was glad I did. Amazing how sharing one’s feelings and receiving words of sympathy can bring such comfort. In my Facebook post back in June, I felt I managed to convey her spirit.
After 15 years of tail wagging, morning walks, swims, chasing (but never catching) rabbits, and gracing the word with gentleness and kindness, our beloved Maggie has departed this life for the next. She gave us so much, and we miss her terribly.
Like everyone with dogs in their lives, I have been tuned into “dog years”. In Maggie’s case, the multiple was seven. When she was nine, she was roughly at my current life stage. As she approached her fifteenth birthday, she had lived the human equivalent of a century. She aged gracefully; maintaining vibrancy, good humor, and an ability right up to the end to enjoy being outdoors with sun and wind on her face. I pray that I fare as well.
But life, as it does, began catching up to her. Moving was increasingly difficult, she could no longer go on morning walks, and she had to bark gently to be carried in and out of the house. She would lie next to my chair and make contented sounds as I massaged her aching muscles through her thick yellow fur. Increasingly, those massages were what I could most do for her. Finally, it got to the point that her quality of life wasn’t there. She deserved to depart with the same dignity and grace with which she had lived.
Having not been through it before, Jill and I were unclear on how it worked. Lots of practical details. We wanted her to be in her home, with her family, and for her final moments to be as relaxed and normal as possible. We wanted her to be near the fields, ocean, rabbits, deer, and birds amid whom she had spent fifteen summers.
The morning of June 24 was as good as it could be for her. She barked to be carried outside, barked to be carried back in, and slept happily in her bed with the sliding doors open to the ocean breeze. The vet arrived and explained to us what would happen. Jill and I knelt on the floor next to Maggie’s bed and talked to her. She woke up from her nap and wagged her tail. I gave her a last, long massage. She barely noticed the vet.
The first shot was to make sure she was relaxed and comfortable. She felt a prick and was reassured when we told her everything was fine. She kept looking trustingly into our eyes. I kept massaging her. I will never forget how her fur felt. The second shot did what it was intended to. Maggie departed. One moment, there was life and a spirit in that yellow fur; the next moment there wasn’t. We had done all we could for her. Again, I hope I am as fortunate.
When my Mom died 19 years ago, from an out-of-nowhere heart attack, she had been the picture of vibrancy for 68 years. While the feelings of loss endure, the fact that Mom was spared something she dreaded- decline in old age- remains a blessing. She was actively loving life right up to the moment that it ended. The night we got the horrible call, I remember the doctors in the emergency room asking if I wanted to go in and say a final goodbye. I wasn’t sure, but was glad I did. It was Mom’s body lying there, but not Mom. I hugged her anyway, and that last farewell helped. The vet offered us the same opportunity with Maggie. Again, I wasn’t sure. And again, I am glad I did. Goodbyes matter.
For years, one of my favorite summer rituals was morning walks with Maggie. I would wake up, grab a cup of coffee, and she and I would head off on narrow paths, watching the sun light up the ocean. This was very similar to my mother’s morning ritual with our dog growing up, and in these walks with Maggie I often felt Mom’s comforting presence.
Shortly after Maggie’s passing, Jill and I sailed into our harbor. A seal popped its head out of the water and watched us approach. Seals are uncommon in this area in summer. I said: “there is Maggie, here with us”.
My family tells me I am not that spiritual, but make of it what you will.