R.I.P. Beloved Friend

Puggo died in my arms on the morning of May 27, 2009. He was 12 and a half years old.

Puggo had been boarding over the Memorial Day weekend and when I came to pick him up on Tuesday, he collapsed while we were still at the vet's. At home, he had another seizure. The vet told me to take him to the emergency clinic if the seizures continued, but they didn't. That night, Puggo sat on the edge of my bed, breathing heavily, then headed into the living room. I bedded down on the couch, but was awake most of the night, somehow knowing that he might have only a little time left. Finally, I dozed off at 3 a.m. for a few hours.

When I woke up, I carried Puggo outside, but as soon as I set him down on the grass, he fell over. I picked him up and carried him back in. Sitting on the edge of my bed, still holding him, I called a client who was coming over that morning to cancel our meeting, and heard myself telling her that I thought Puggo might be dying. I texted my boyfriend to tell him that Puggo was in bad shape and that I was off to the vet. In between, I talked to my beloved companion, calling him "Babycake."

At one point, I heard what I can only describe as a death rattle coming from his throat as he voided for what would be the last time. I was crying and calling to him not to leave me, even as I found a towel to wrap him in, changed into clean clothes, slipped on my shoes, and laid him on the seat next to me, racing for the vet's. Part of me hoped that he was still alive, asleep or even in a coma-- after all, his body was as warm as ever-- while another part knew that he was gone. When I got to the clinic, the receptionist took one look at us and immediately led me to a room. The vet came in, asking when was the last time Puggo had moved. She gently told me that he was gone. She didn't know why, perhaps he had a neurological disease; it was just his time to go. I called Michael, my boyfriend, and he read me Robinson Jeffers' ode to his beloved bulldog, Haig, who was buried outside the poet's home.  I stayed in the room beside Puggo until his warmth had dissipated. He was really gone.


Through the pain, I realized how lucky I was to have been there when he passed, rather than away at work, and how blessed I was that he had died in my arms.  It was almost as though he had waited, first for me to come back from a weekend away, and then for me to wake up that morning.



A couple of weeks later, Michael and I picked up the little cedar box with Puggo's ashes, which rests on the fireplace mantel. After a month of grieving, I got a new pug, also fawn, also male, a 9-month-old show puppy named Louie. I did this in part because I remembered when I miscarried my third child, the doctor had advised me to wait a couple of months and then try again. For various reasons, I didn't take his advice to have another child, but I knew that I was ready to care for another dog. Louie isn't a replacement for Puggo, but a continuation of the adventure of being a pug mama.