At dinner time, Aki and the whole family took a long, leisurely walk in Laurelhurst Park Monday. The kids were happy and joyful with her. It was clear that she was struggling. Even on double morphines, she could only walk about 100 feet before she needed a 5 minute rest. But she SOOO wanted to be on the walk with us all. We sat in the grass, and watched the clouds go by. Aki sat, as always, with her attention tuned to whatever happened behind our backs, protecting us from anything that might sneak up from behind.
As I walked Aki back to the house, she was really struggling to walk. Trying to do her a kindness, I first tried to cross the street and go immediately into the alley – the most direct route home. Aki had another idea. See, she always preferred to go home the long way, walking down the tree-lined Oak Street, then approaching the house from the alley on the side opposite the park. Oak Street was her favorite, without a doubt, so it shouldn’t have surprised me when she – realizing my plan – dug in and refused to go anywhere but down Oak Street. It took a second or two to understand what she meant with her behavior. And when I did, there was naturally no other choice but to walk home by way of Oak Street one last time. Even if it meant carrying her the last bit home. I didn’t have to carry her afterall, but it was darned close.
Back at the house, the vet met us in the back yard. As she set up for the procedure, Aki – lying down because she couldn’t stand after the walk - had steak fillet and salmon for dinner, followed by a big bowl of ice cream. Two bowls, actually… we vamped because the vet needed more time to answer all of C's questions.
Then, it was time to get started.
The vet used a two-stage procedure: a big dose of sedative, wait 20 minutes; then an overdose of anesthetic. We gave Aki a THIRD bowl of ice cream for the sedative shot. She licked the bowl clean with eyes drooping, fighting sleep. She got that bowl clean, though. Then she sighed and drifted off to sleep with all four of us gently petting her.
Snoring, softly.
R, being the technical-minded twelve year old boy he is, was fascinated by the process. He was asking questions of the vet and she took the opportunity to talk him through not only each step, but also how each step fit into the entire procedure. She explained each piece of equipment and what it did. When she tied on the tourniquet to raise a vein, she showed him what she was looking for and let him feel it too. He asked her, "if we didn't do anything more after the sedative, would she ever wake up?" The vet answered that she would indeed, but that it would take almost 24 hours.
When the time came for the anesthetic, she asked, kindly, "we can proceed whenever you feel ready enough." R spoke first, saying "I'm NEVER going to be ready, but we need to do this. Me being ready isn't the point. I vote 'now'" And do we did we all. And with quiet tears from me, C and M - but fascination with the IV from R - the vet gave Aki the anesthetic.
Aki's soft snoring breathing just.....stopped. No rattling breaths, no flinches or twitches to startle the kids, just a gentle cessation. It took a full minute or two for the kids to really realize she'd gone. Nothing had happened. Nothing dramatic, anyway. Only peacefulness.
After the vet confirmed that she had passed, w picked her up and put her in the minivan for the trip to Banks. The kids opted not to go on the trip to bury her; they stayed with friends close by to home while we finished the task.
Once we got to the farm, C and I were met by my sister who stayed up late to help us. We placed Aki in a grove of trees where about a half-dozen other family dogs have been buried. We placed her with a toy, and three bouquets of flowers, on top of one of her favorite blankets. Then we planted a Galaxy bush to mark her spot. Aki had been to the farm a number of times while alive; she liked it there.
On Tuesday morning, M said that she was glad she was brave enough to stay for the whole thing. She said it wasn't scary at all. It was sad, but not scary. Aki got to go on with dignity, surrounded by her family. Having had to put a cat in extreme duress down in a veterinary office with no advanced warning, C and I knew what the alternative can be like. We were heartened to hear M's perspective. That, afterall, was what we wanted to achieve in honoring and aiding Aki's passing.
M's cell phone now carries a new charm -- the heart-shaped dog license from Aki's collar.
Tonight, a week later, I came home from work and was startled to find that there was no dog blocking my path, greeting me. I stepped around her presence anyway, confident that her spirit was both here, and amongst the trees in Banks, all at the same time.
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