My Girl

photo: @dtait_photography

Today a “memory” came up on the Facebook feed, and it brought me to my knees. It’s hard for some people to believe that a dog can have such a profound impact on one’s life, and yet here was Bella, my beautiful yellow lab who passed away last summer, and along with her the truth: I loved her with a fierce kind of love not unlike the love I feel for my children…and her love for me was perfect. Like no human love can probably ever be. A dog’s devotion is peerless, as is her patience. She doesn’t judge you or get angry with you about your choices. She just loves. Bella would lie on my feet while I Zoom-taught my students and Zoom-met with administrators, and called parents, and, all the while, made our plans for our move to New Zealand. She knew that pretty much every day, I would eventually take her outside for her walk, and that there would be considerable snuggling when that was done.

As we prepared to make our move, I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen with Bella, but I knew that it was time for my family to go. I called pet transport company after pet transport company, and it wasn’t looking good. Bella Patrice was twelve years old and ailing; while most of the time she seemed fine, she would have these attacks that would leave her gasping for air and even foaming at the mouth. They came on when she got excited and behaved too energetically (which happened almost every time we walked her down to the beach from our Aptos home). The news from pet transport companies was grim. There was hardly anyone flying pets to New Zealand just then, because there were hardly any people going there since the borders had closed—the best quote I got was $9,000 for her one-way flight. Beyond that was the hard truth that such a long flight would be very hard on Bella. I knew in my heart of heart, that she might not even make it if I chose to subject her to it. Still I went through the motions of sorting out her rabies vaccinations and preparing her for a journey. As we have seen a lot during this pandemic, we have to just keep behaving like things are happening…all the way up until they don’t.

We just kept on preparing for our migration, which was pretty challenging with nothing open (this was before we sort of worked out curb side service and in the middle of Governor Newsom’s first strict lockdown—even Salvation Army and Goodwill couldn’t help us offload all of the things we were not bringing with us). Bella moved (and napped) around us as we gave away and sold almost everything we owned via Facebook marketplace, leaving items on the doorstep to be picked up by people who had paid by Venmo or agreed to leave money on the chair placed there for that purpose. The smaller items went when I announced one day on Facebook that all the rest of our household items could be picked up from our driveway for free. Bella and I watched out the window as a slow parade of families came to sort through our belongings and pack them into their cars for use in their own homes. I still didn’t know how things were going to shake out with Bella then, but our family friend Dave had said he’d keep her “until she could fly to join us.” This was the charade we were playing.

During this time, there was a particularly horrendous episode for Bella, where I was certain that she was dying. We were down at the beach and she had just been splashing happily in the water. One minute she was barking for me to throw a stick, and the next her bowels had let go, and we were lying on the beach together, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, gray and lifeless. My husband and I had called our son Rakai to drive the car down, so that we could somehow bring her home. “Bring a blanket,” I heard Dwaine say, anticipating how difficult it would be to carry our 75 pound fur baby up the long beach. When Rakai arrived and walked out to where he could see us, I know his heart sank, because what he saw could only mean the end of his lifelong friend (we got Bella in New Zealand when Rakai was only 9—now he was 21). It was his mother draped over the lifeless body of his yellow lab on the sand, weeping. I was telling her, “It’s okay, Bella. It’s okay to go. We’ll be okay now.” I wanted her to stop fighting and stop suffering. I wanted her to stop trying to take care of me and be at peace. Her body had clearly failed her. But when Rakai came down to where we lay, Bella perked up. She got to her feet and, though a little unsteady at first, started to walked toward him. I couldn’t believe it. She wagged her tail and looked looked back at me and my husband as if to say, “Are you guys coming?” When we got to the car, she hopped into the hatchback.

That was the last beach walk. I was too afraid to brave the very steep hill down to the beach any more. Walks were now limited to the gardens around our home and neighbourhood. Bella would still get excited and winded and go into her wheezing a bit, but she was so happy being outside and rolling in the grass. It made me think about how I will feel as a very old woman (which is less and less of a stretch these days!) and how I think I won’t want to be deprived of the things I love just to lengthen my days on the planet. What good are more days without the sun on my face and the ocean air on my skin? Even if I only get to experience these things from, say, a wheelchair one day, I believe I will long for them with every cell in my body. So, projecting my own thoughts in this way and having them affirmed by her delight each time we walked in the gardens, I continued to take Bella out and about, trying to keep her from exerting herself too much.

Meanwhile, the date of our departure was approaching. Inwardly I knew that Bella would never come to New Zealand, and that grieved me acutely, but we continued to plan on bringing her down to “Uncle Dave.” Each night she would curl up next to me for bed, and I would stoke her fur and love her up. She didn’t seem worried or agitated about all the changes in her environment…just happy to be by my side and close. She got lots of treats in those days, even though we had been scolded by a vet for overfeeding her. She didn’t seem to be holding the weight the same way anymore anyway; the bones of her hips were just visible…like a little old lady. Three days before we were to drive her down to L.A., we took Bella to a park where we were meeting my parents for a picnic. We had been incredibly stringent about non-contact. It was early on when we thought that any little touch could transmit the dreaded virus, and so we had hardly even seen my family, even though they lived very nearby. This seemed like a way we could manage to spend time together without fear of transmitting the virus to one another. Our departure date was approaching, after all, and the good bye, which was long and difficult, had already begun.

We hadn’t been at the park for 10 minutes when Bella had her final attack. She was so happy to be out there on the grassy field, in the sunshine, with so many of her favourite people around her (she had a special affinity for my parents who loved her and always treated her like a canine queen). The rest of the story is too hard to tell. There was a frantic and tearful race to the veterinary hospital, where of course we couldn’t go in with her, hours of waiting for test results, the somber phone consultation with the vet, and finally, our acquiescence to the difficult truth that Bella’s time had come. My mom came with me into the little room that was set aside for sending pets into the ever after. I knelt on the floor of that room and held Bella’s face in my hands as she softened into her final farewell. There was a lot of sobbing. A lot of snot. So many tears. I had known for many years that it would be hard to say goodbye to Bella, but I never imagined it would hurt quite so much.

These moments in the veterinary hospital with my mom, and the hours with my mom and dad waiting with us for the news…these were Bella’s last gifts to me. My parents, struggling to accept my decision to leave the country yet again (it could only have felt like their vagabond daughter once again disappointing them with her wanderlust) didn’t know how to be around me. The bitterness and hurt were overwhelming, and the picnic lunch we had arranged was likely to be awkward at best. Perhaps it was the trauma of seeing Bella collapse as she did, the vision of their daughter sobbing into her dog’s ears—but something shifted. Something broke loose. We hung out together (masked, of course) in our back yard. My dad held my gaze, though I know it pained him. He brought out his golf clubs and taught me with a whiffle ball how to swing (I had made a reservation to go golfing with him for the upcoming Father’s Day, and I had never even touched a club before). He did his best to distract me and to show me his love, and he and my mom both stuck around, even though our impending departure hung in the air around our ears and was heavy on their hearts. My dad also made it clear what he would do in our situation (even though the vet had not even called yet with our options). “I would never let her suffer like that again,” he said gravely, and I knew that, even if she recovered today, it would be selfish if our actions put Bella in the position to have another such attack.

Ultimately, we decided to put her down. Even typing that brings a flood of tears. I still can’t believe how much it aches. My mom stayed in that little room with me, listening to my mask-muffled sobs and stroking Bella’s shoulders, her ears. It was a moment of healing between me and my mom. Perhaps it reminded her of my vulnerability. That no matter how I move on the earth, I am still just her little girl. I am, too. Still just my parents’ little girl most of the time. She let me take as much time as I needed. Bella was long gone by the time we finally left the room with Bella’s pink collar hanging in my hand. Out in the parking lot, we rejoined the rest of the family. Our masked nurse wanted to know if we wanted Bella’s ashes, but they wouldn’t arrive to us until we were already gone (our flight was in a mere week). We were so forlorn, so paralysed. It was a profound moment of letting go. “No,” we told her. And, “Thank you.”

I have Bella’s pink collar in the bottom drawer of my dresser here in New Zealand. My heart contracts every time I see it, but I can’t put it away-away. Not yet. I still don’t know what to do with it, but I can’t part with it. It seems stupid to bury it, but “stupid” has really undergone a revision in my mind. These days, I find almost nothing done in earnest “stupid.” Perhaps that is what I will do. Gather my little family, whom I know grieves her as intensely as I do, and have ceremony. Say goodbye as a unit…it’s the only way Bella ever knew us. Even when Taiaroa was off at university or Rakai at snowboarding competitions and training, our little “chuther” always came back together, as it still always does…but now with the addition of our beautiful “Joe” (Angelina), who has grown and enlivened and enriched our family in ways we never imagined. Yes, we will all be together soon. I’m trying not to hold my breath until then, but it’s hard. Together we will say goodbye to Bella and speak our love into the ether: We love you, Bella. You were perfect in your little yellow lab body, all love and light, and we know you still exist somewhere out there. You healed us and you gave yourself to us, again and again. We are humbled and so grateful, my beautiful girl. Thank you.

*”chuther” refers to what Rakai and Taiaroa used to say when they were very small: “Let’s just hang out with our chuther,” they would say. It stuck. : )