EthicalDative

On day 3 of Bess’s absence I wake up with and go to sleep with a dogged downness that I want to surmount as soon as possible. Wine numbs but doesn’t fix it. I hate grieving because of how my brain keeps reverting perversely to sights and sounds I long to unsee and unhear — the spectacle, relatively brief, but that’s cold comfort — of my innocent young pet’s anguish; the horrifying moment when she rolled on her side, had a spasm, which is the moment, I surmise, when she effectively expired, the remaining breaths she drew just being the body doing what it does until it shuts down. Why does the mind do that? Is it some internal mechanism that dictates that, in order to get over it, you have to keep reliving the worst part of your disaster? I just want to spew scatological invective over having to feel these feelings and suffer this insult to my mediocre contentment, this senseless deprivation of my companion, my stupid precious dog.

I’m relatively resilient. I have things to do and promises to keep, and the water works have to dry up for these projects to go forward. How much salty liquid do we store, for pity’s sake? I don’t intend to mention this event again, and beg indulgence for dwelling on it here, hoping that going through rather than around will help put it to rest. My loss is a drop in the ocean compared to the horrible things that happen in the world every second of every day, but it takes a while to heal the sting and get to that perspective.

(c) 2018 JMN.

Bess 10-19-18.

Out of the blue, she foamed and slobbered at the mouth. She then threw up copiously and walked around groaning in obvious distress, apparently abdominal, for several minutes. I realized after several moments that she had defecated nearby. I followed her around talking to her, hoping that she would get relief after upchucking. Minutes later she retreated to a corner and vomited foam. At one point she rolled on her side and flailed. Weeping, I called several vets at 8 pm on Friday. None were available for house calls. I called my sister and my neighbor. She cleaned, he massaged her, and we talked to her for 45 minutes. Her breathing came increasingly fitfully and faintly. She died.

My dog Cookie died, 3-4 years of age, October 10, 2016. I’ve shown pictures of Cookie’s box of ashes in previous posts. Bess died, 3-4 years of age, October 19, 2018. What’s with October? I’m wondering if there’s something in this environment that condemns my dogs to premature, catastrophic failure. It’s difficult to process this event. Literally one hour before her death I was kicking Bess’s big round ball to her in the livingroom, and she was blocking it with her ass, growling and swatting it with her rubber bone, and cutting off my every shot with extreme dexterity — her favorite game.

I post this with inexpressible sadness.