Hana the Healer

Healing can arrive in all forms. Sometimes it comes as a kind word from a stranger when you least expect it, or a song that plays on the radio when you most need to hear it, or in my case, healing came in the form of a creature resembling a fruit bat:

I haven't been well these past few weeks.  I thought I was handling Stella's death just fine, and perhaps I was handling her death fine, but I wasn't handling my role in her death so well.  Katya had given me a photo frame upon leaving the vet's office that day, and on Sunday night, after I had spent almost two days in silence, unable to speak to anyone or even move from my place on the couch, I got up and did something: I chose a picture to place in the frame.

Putting it together, it felt right.  It felt good. And as I placed the photo frame on my bureau, I felt a lightness enter my heart, a gentle breeze that swept away the sadness.  Stella, this girl who had been tossed aside, left to the fates, had found a home in my heart, and even after she's gone, her picture, her memory will live on.

I know it's a purely human desire to leave something of ourselves after we're gone; dogs live in the moment.  But when I placed that photo frame upon my bureau, I felt like Stella was not just at peace, but filled with joy.  She had loved, and was loved.  She had gotten what every dog wishes for more than a soft warm bed: a place in someone's heart.

And so I thought I was better.  But each morning I awoke, my fists clenched, my jaw clenched, my heart was not at peace.  Had it been the right time?  Why wasn't there a sign that it had been the right thing to do?  Or had I been unwilling to accept the signs?

As much as I hate endings, I have a difficult time living without closure.  And I clearly wasn't going to get it.  Even after picking up her ashes, and placing the urn next to her picture, I thought certainly I must be at peace now.

But I wasn’t.

I was slowly checking off my issues in my heart about it all.  Yes, I accepted that she could not be treated for pneumonia.  Yes, I accepted that it needed to be done.  Yes, I accepted that it had hurt her, but it was the needle, not death, that was painful for her.  But I hadn't yet accepted that she was suffering so terribly that what I had done was prevent further suffering, not snuff out a life that still could have had joy in it.

The thing is, the answers that I sought had to be found within me.  No one's words--not even my words I've written over the years--could make me feel better.  I had to stop thinking, "I killed an animal," which is the only terminology that ran through my mind.  When telling people how Stella died, I couldn't come up with the words.  I wasn't mourning to the loss of my pet; I was questioning my decision and how I couldn't take it back.  Nothing felt right.  I wasn't right.  I was broken.

Unlike when Dutchess died and I couldn't imagine ever loving another dog again, I yearned to go to an adoption event, to snuggle with a puppy, to take a dog for a walk--something, anything, that would make the sick feeling of holding a lifeless dog in my arms go away.  I needed life.  I needed to help another dog.

So of course, there was no one to help.  I sent my plea out, and no one needed any help right away.  And so I waited.  I sunk deeper into depression wondering how I was ever going to find closure when Christy emailed me that she could me loan me a dog for a night.

Hana is an eight month old Parvo survivor who was broken out of Baldwin Park (the same place Stella had come from) only a couple weeks ago.  She was living with her foster family in Santa Clarita, and Christy asked if I could pick up Hana from the Saturday mobile adoption, spend the Saturday night with her, and then attend another mobile adoption with her nearby Sunday morning.  I immediately said yes, knowing that a sleepover with a perfectly healthy, active, yet cuddly, pit bull mix was exactly what I needed.

Hana's foster mom drove her down for the first mobile adoption, where I met her for the first time.  Hana is indeed a striking animal.  Weimaraner and pit bull is what she's listed as, although at times I see Great Dane.  And other times, I just see a gargoyle.

Katie, Hana's foster mom, is madly in love with her--that is quite evident.  She bought her a collar, and a little ID tag, and even a sweater-vest that Hana already had outgrown in the two weeks she had had her.  Katie told me all about Hana, and I could tell that if circumstances were different, Hana wouldn't need to be at an adoption fair at all--she'd be Katie's dog for life. 

Katie said this was her first foster dog since having to put her ten year old dog down.  She still had two other dogs (one older in fact), but it hit her hard.  This was the first one of her adulthood that she had to do herself; her parents took care of those things when she was a kid.  I told her my situation, and realized that this bizarre pittie might just be Hana the Healer--the one both Katie and I needed to be with in order to heal.

Upon take her home though, I discovered that Hana the Healer first needed to be Hana the Destroyer.  Katie warned me that she had already spent a ridiculous amount of money on toys.  I had no idea a tennis ball could be disassembled in this manner:

That was done in under a minute.  So you can imagine my unease when Hana wanted to cuddle with me while chewing on her toys. 

She is not a vicious dog, but she's eight months old and unaware of exactly how powerful her giant jaws are.  Trying to get her to chew her toys with an adequate amount of safe space between it and my boob/leg/finger/arm/hip/wherever-she-felt-like-resting-it, was a tedious and stressful project.  Especially because, in all honesty, I really did want her to cuddle with me.

Maybe it's her breed, or maybe it's her age, but she could go from sixty to zero quite quickly.  From running around the room--including a four-footed slide across the coffee table to ungracefully land on the couch--to snoring on my lap happened instantly.  When she was ready to sleep, she slept.

And that part I did enjoy.  Stella was not cuddly.  Neither was Harry.  Leave it to the forty-pound pit bulls to want to use you as a pillow.  I needed a little cuddle time, just as much as I needed to be active.

I hadn't walked a dog in many months.  Harry's walks weren't very long since his legs were so short (and he had been ill).  And Stella seldom made it even down the block.  But this dog, if given the chance, could have hiked to Santa Monica.  And all the while, never squatting once to pee or poop.

Katie warned me that Hana doesn't pee every time she's outside.  She has a yard and had always gone outside to go, so it was assumed she was house-trained, but if she was on a walk, it took forever for her to find a spot.  Katie assumed Hana was simply distracted investigating her new surroundings.  Once she found a place to go, she would only go in that one spot from then on.

Hana had not gone to the bathroom all day--even when I walked her around before heading inside.  She almost always walked with that stance dogs get just before going: the legs a little wider apart, the nose more intently sniffing...but then nothing.  When I saw her start to get it inside the house, and knowing it could still be an hour before she found a place outside, I quickly ran into the bathroom to relieve myself.  Two minutes later, I opened the bathroom door and realized we didn't need to go outside at all: Hana had found her spot--right in front of the bathroom door.

I couldn't yell at her.  She was long gone, gnawing on something in the living room.  Perhaps she didn't understand me telling her I'd be just a moment and then we'd go outside.  And so, this became her spot.  Even after walking for hours, she would rush inside afterwards...to pee in the hallway.  There was no deterring her, and even my over-dramatics in the hopes of getting her to understand this shouldn't be happening, did not stop her from urinating.  She just didn't seem to understand what all the fuss was about.

I have to admit that despite these antics (or perhaps because of them), Hana was good not only for my soul, but for my body.  I got more exercise Saturday and Sunday than I have had in the past month.  We walked for hours.  And, since Hana has no sense of personal space, she did not allow me to eat.  I probably could have, but it was getting annoying pushing her large muzzle out of my face and/or bowl while I was eating.  Again, she did not seem to comprehend why I was pushing her off me and what this strange vocalization of "No!" meant.

All exercise and no food; Hana is an excellent personal trainer.  People kept mentioning how thin she was herself, but since I had gotten used to Stella, I didn't see a thin dog at all.  I saw a healthy dog not on the fat side.  And it wasn't like Hana didn't eat.  She even made piggy noises.  She ate everything--whether or not it had nutritional value.  Katie informed me that Hana's plumbing was quite good.  Hana had consumed a Reese's peanut butter cup wrapper at Thanksgiving dinner, and it had completed its journey though Hana by the next morning.  Hana survived Parvo.  I guess after that, her intestines can handle anything.

The thing is, she's not a small a dog.  I had to make sure Harry wouldn't eat stuff, but his mouth was so tiny, I only had to be careful of tiny things he might swallow.  And if he did get a hold of something large like my shoe, I would have ample time to commandeer it before he completely ruined it.  Given Hana's size and her propensity and talent for destruction, trying to stay one step ahead of what she might eat was a non-stop activity.  I didn't just have to remove tiny objects she might find tempting; I had to put away anything smaller than a Thanksgiving turkey.  And if I didn't catch her the moment she laid eyes on her object of desire, it would be obliterated from existence.

Through all this, including a frustrating breakfast that entailed me trying to stop her from taking a dump on the carpet at which point she collapsed into it (yay), and then dragging her outside to finish up, and her still not understanding what the problem was, all along she was healing me.

At the adoption fair, she had one interested party: a volunteer whose Weimaraner had recently passed away.  She said she wasn't ready for another dog yet.  I'm not a salesperson, and I'm not going to pressure someone who isn't ready.  But I did mention that for both Katie and me, Hana is who showed up to help us.  Maybe Hana was the one who could help her heal from the loss of her pet.

It would be a fantastic home: she wouldn't have a yard, but she'd be taken out six or seven times a day to run along the beach.  She'd have their undying love.  And she'd have their understanding.  When I said, "She eats EVERYTHING," she replied that her dog ate everything as well.  You always have to watch those Weimaraners, she explained.  She had three different trainers for her dog as it's a very social dog scene where she lives and she needs them to be on their best behavior.  I have no doubt that Hana would learn quickly, and enjoy every moment of that life.

I took the woman's information and passed it along to Christy.  I hope her husband decides to meet Hana.  She really does love boys more than girls.  Even Christy witnessed it when she and Craig came over with their super-vacuum to help me clean up Hana's "chosen spots."  She was even affected by Craig's reprimand.

Hana had been sleeping on my lap before they arrived and I knew that as soon as Hana woke up, she'd have to go to the bathroom...but so did I.  I told Christy and she said she'd watch Hana while I went to the bathroom.  No sooner was I was relieving myself when I heard from the living room, "Hana, no...."

"She just pissed in the living room, didn't she?" I yelled out while sitting on the toilet.

"Uh, yeah," Christy yelled back.  "But Craig sorta pushed her into the kitchen so most of it is on linoleum."

When I returned to the living room, Craig was using a rag to mop up the piss, and Hana sat on the couch, leaning into Christy looking guilty for the first time.

Hana wasn't a bad dog; she just hadn't even been taught what was right and what was wrong.  And I truly believe that the first step to training any dog is making the dog actually give a crap what you think.  Hana didn't care if I liked her or not.  She had her foster mom who loved her.  She didn't need to earn my love.  She wanted Craig to love her though, and with the way she looked at him, you would have thought he had ripped her heart out and stomped on it.

Within moments of that incident, Katie was at my door to pick up Hana.  She was shocked that Hana had defecated all over my apartment, but I explained that dogs are different with different people.  I've been on the other side: I've had a perfectly well-behaved foster who goes into another home and he turns into a hellion (...Murphy?...).  I just got the other end of it this time.

I did get some precious moments along the way too.  After the adoption fair, while I was sitting in the car on the phone with Christy, I watched Hana slowly but surely lose her hold on being awake.  She had been a bit groggy on the short drive home, leaning her big head on my arm, and I asked if she was all right, or if perhaps she didn't feel well.  I got my answer as I watched her eyelids droop, once, twice, then her head start to sag, then finally she submitted to her need to sleep, crumbling into the passenger seat, her legs all jumbled up around her as she snored the snore of a completely content and totally exhausted dog.

It was good she got her nap in, because she had quite a fright inside.  As she again was gnawing on some toy and I was trying to keep myself as far from her molars as possible while she lay on me, she spied something at the door.  The door was open, and it appeared she was looking at the screen.  She came to immediate attention and let out a growly bark.  I looked over, saw nothing, and tried to follow her sightline.

I still saw nothing, so I walked to the door and she followed.  She continued to stare outside, and still I saw nothing.  The wind was stirring things up, but nothing that caught my eye.  She stared harder and even began to tremble.

"This is silly.  If you're that upset, let's go outside."

I had to almost drag her outside.  She cowered at the screen door.  I got her out and discovered that she was looking at something within the pool area.  I brought her to the gate and unlocked it.  She refused to go through it.  I pulled her in and tried to figure out what the problem was.  I finally saw what she saw: two beach balls dancing across the surface of the pool in the shallow end, driven by the changing winds.

"They're beach balls, Hana," I explained.  "Come here."

Oh, no, she was not having any of that.  She dropped herself to the pavement, utilizing her gravitational pull to stay in place.  The moment I started to walk toward the gate she sprung up and tried desperately to get out of the pool area.

We returned inside and she stood sentinel at the door. 

She continued to stare at the balls, occasionally looking up at me with a, "How are you not upset by that?!?" expression.

I was amused by her antics, but she was clearly freaked out, so I walked out the door to investigate for her.  I wish I could have seen her face through the screen door as I approached the pool area, opened the gate, and walked up to the magical beach balls.  I imagine she was at the door, her paws up, trying to yell, "Noo!!! Don't do it!  Save yourself!  It's not worth it!  Get away!"

I picked up one ball, and held it out towards my door.  I then picked up the other and did the same thing.  I put them down and returned to my apartment.  Hana was already leaping up before I had gotten fully in the door.

"Holy cow!  I'm so glad you're okay!" she seemed to be saying.  "I didn't think you were going to make it!"

I clipped her leash on and she willingly followed me to the gate so she too, could see that the beach balls were not a threat.

She was fine until I reached down to pick one up.  She shuddered briefly, then bravely stuck her neck out to sniff the ball.  She was still at the far end of the leash, but she did the best she could.

This forty pound pit bull-gargoyle mix couldn't handle wind-blown beach balls in a pool, and yet she was perfectly prepared to reach into my heart to mend it.  She had no idea she had done so.  I was aware of it as I lay on the couch with her big pittie body all scrunched up into me that she was making me feel better.  But it wasn't until tonight that I took off the bandages and realized how much I had healed.

My next door neighbor had taken his childhood dog, an aging beagle with slipped discs named PJ, when his parents said they had given up.  He got her right around the time I had gotten Stella.  Watching PJ try to walk, pained me.  I could see how much she suffered with every step.  I wondered if he could see it, or, if like me, he had all the hope in the world for her just as I had had for Stella.  And I wondered if he had looked at Stella the way I was looking at PJ--wondering why I was holding onto to Hope.  I hadn't seen PJ for a time, and I was scared to ask.  I had told him about Stella, and said that if it came to that for him, to do his research and really be prepared, as I felt I hadn't been.

He had come to my rescue with a roll of paper towels yesterday morning when I had run out and had Hana-smooshed-crap on my carpet, and so tonight I went over to give him a new roll.  I found him outside, in tears.  He had just coming back from saying good-bye to PJ.  She had stopped eating, stopped moving.  They had been talking about it for a week.  They had literally just returned from the vet's, from having the experience I had had with Stella three weeks ago.

I gave him my condolences, told him that he had done everything for her, and that he did what was best.  I gave him a hug, and told him if he needed to talk--or needed to not talk--it was up to him, but if needed anything, to just knock on my door.

I still don't have the words for the action.  In clinical terms, euthanizing a pet is something none of us ever want to be faced with, but some of us are forced to.  Much like the animals themselves, the decision, the action, is within our hearts for eternity.  We carry it with us, as we carry them with us.  It's not something to "get over."  It's a mark on your heart that will always be there.  The wound will heal, but the scar will last forever.

Spending time with Hana, seeing how vibrant she was, how healthy and alive she was, made me realize how much Stella was not.  And how at one point, Stella was probably very much like Hana: running around like a crazy dog, mouthing and destroying toys (although I think she was too ladylike to pee indoors).  When I met Stella she could not do those things anymore, her body no longer could provide her soul with what she wished to do and how she wished to be.  Giving her a place to be in those final weeks, and being with her at Death's Door was my role her in life. 

Hana's role in my life was to heal me in a way I couldn't do on my own, and a way no one else could provide for me.  I needed to find that peace within myself, and it just wasn't there until Hana arrived.  She entered my heart and brought with her that peace--that peace that can only be derived from the chaos of life. 

I have a feeling that Hana will go on to heal more humans.  Hana needs a home, but even more so, there's a human who's in desperate need of Hana.  If you are this person, or know someone who is, please look at her profile and give her a chance.  She needs some training on commands and housebreaking, but she doesn't need be taught a single thing about the human heart; she a natural with that.

http://www.adoptapet.com/pet4661788.html

Bringing Stella Home

I have spent the past three and half years of my life making a hobby of sneaking into Death's yard and snatching trespassing puppies of his front porch.  So it is with great remorse and sadness that I found myself today on Death's front porch, tears streaming down my face, beloved canine soul in my arms, ringing his doorbell.  Stella had led me to his front gate, but not before I had rung every single neighbor's doorbell, pleading with everyone, to help me save this dog.

Thursday afternoon, I got the final confirmation of Stella's test results: everything looked the same.  In essence, Science had beaten Hope.  There was nothing more that could be done, I was told.  And I again, stubbornly refused to believe it.  But time was running out.  Stella had been off meds for a full week.  The green gook was coming back full force.  She coughed all through the nights.  If I was going to get this girl better, a different approach needed to be found.  I called the vet's office, picked up her vet records, called and emailed everyone I knew to find a top notch vet that would not only take into account her dismal blood tests, but also her soaring spirit that had not faltered.

I was referred to one holistic vet, and I thought this was perfect.  I left a message, and even an email, and still to this time, have not received a call back.  Very, very, bad karma.  I go off instinct when it comes to making a choice like this.  My instinct was okay with two different vets: one in Beverly Hills and one in Burbank.  I didn't want to automatically take the one in Burbank just because it was convenient, so I called the one in Beverly Hills first thing Friday morning.  I was not impressed with whoever answered the phone, and although one shouldn't judge a vet's ability about his or her staff, I didn't like the idea that appointments were fifteen minutes long, whether you were a walk-in or scheduled, and that was that.  I needed more than fifteen minutes to make a life or death decision.  I wanted a vet who would exam her, look at the test results, see if there was anything else that could be done.

I called the second place, told them my situation, and they could fit me in at 5:40.  It would be at least a twenty minute appointment.  They ran appointments at twenty to half hour increments.  This was better.  I felt good about it.

But when Stephanie called to give them the credit card info, she found out the place was not only not rescue friendly (no discounts), but they are one of the most expensive vets in the valley.  Stephanie said she loved the place she uses in Malibu, and in an instant, I instinctually said, fine.  It's forty miles away, but I needed someone to see Stella.

I had two hours to pick up Stella's x-rays, make it across town and then up the PCH.  It's not an easy feat, but the universe was on my side.  I made it there with twenty minutes to spare.

The front area was inviting and the staff seemed very nice.  When Stella decided that she'd rather wait in line at the reception desk than go to the exam room with me, the kind vet tech came over and picked her up.  He placed her back down in the exam room, and given the slippery floor and Stella not having traction on the pads of her feet, Stella slid herself down to a laying position--blocking the door.

The vet came in and I showed him the info and he asked if the x-rays were explained to me.  I said "I was told white was bad, black was good, and there's a lot of white." 

He proceeded to show me the x-ray with a bit more information: "See that tree-branch formation in the lungs?  That's inflammation.  She has severe pneumonia.  If a patient of mine had severe pneumonia, I would hospitalize her.  But..."

I knew the "but."  She wouldn't make it through another hospitalization.  She was having a rough morning.  When he went down to listen to her lungs he tried to get her to sit up at which point Stella enacted her ragdoll impersonation and collapsed in his hands.

"See, she's so weak, she can't even stand."

I shook my head and explained that we had just been walking around outside five minutes ago.  Stella has no traction on her feet.  She can't stand on this floor.  "Strong dogs can stand on this floor," he replied.

I was slowly losing respect for this guy.  But I think the kicker came when he said, "You're attached, aren't you?  I mean, it's okay if you are."

Holy crap.  Really?  My love has matured enough that even though I care about this dog, I can still see that she looks like shit.  But I also can see her will to fight--which at the present moment, she wasn't showing him.

Three minutes.  I think that's all I got with this guy I had driven almost two hours for.  He said he'd call Stephanie and discuss "options." 

Fuck.

I know what "options" means.  It's like "going to the farm."  Don't be condescending.  And don't say this dog should be put down because you looked at her paperwork.  The second opinion I needed was from a man not of pure science, but of science and also behavioral psychology.  Tell me Stella doesn't want to live, and I'll accept it.  Tell me she can't live, and I'll fight you until I prove you wrong.

While he was gone, Stella got up, wandered around, and then sat back down next to me while I asked her why the hell she couldn't be so inquisitive and lively ten minutes ago.  When he returned many minutes later, he said Stephanie was on line two for me.

Fuck, again.

Granted Stephanie had spent more time with Stella last week than this vet had right now, but I still don't think someone who doesn't see her good and bad times has the right to decide to snuff out her life.  There were three choices, Stephanie told me.  First, hospitalization, but we all knew Stella would die alone in a cage if we tried that.  Second, antibiotics that would most likely do no good at all, but we needed to be realistic about when suffering with this condition was just too much for her, and thirdly, end her life right here and now.  The third option was not an option for me whatsoever.

Stephanie tried to persuade me to that third, and when she said, "As of Monday your life is changing," I think I might have actually yelled, "Fuck you! That is NOT fair!" or something of that sort.  This dog was not going to die because a new foster couldn't be found and I had to go to work.  No one was going to do that to me.

That might not have been what she was implying, but at that point, I wasn't listening anymore.  I was crying, I had used this vet's exam room for over forty-five minutes, and he needed to see more patients.  Through my tears, I said to Stephanie, "I promised Stella I would take her to the beach.  I'm taking her to the beach."

She said okay, and to call her afterward.  I think she assumed I would take Stella to the beach and return in an hour.  Fuck that.  Again, not relying on one person's three minute half-evaluation of her.  He didn't even see her perk up.

When the doc came back in, I told him I couldn't do it.  He said, fine, but when she stops eating, it's time to consider this again.  I could wait outside while he got the meds ready.  He was worried that she might have distemper--which she was never tested for--and he didn't want that spreading.  Here was the most disheartening thing: she had never been tested for anything except bacterial infections.  People ask, why should it matter?  Because it does.  Just like test results matter, not just the condition.  If I knew she had cancer or distemper, which is a death sentence, I could accept that she was terminal, and I would really examine how badly she was suffering compared to how much joy she had.

With antibiotics in hand, I left, knowing I was not coming back.  Instead, I drove north up PCH, to a dog beach Stephanie had mentioned.  (She, however, failed to mention the twelve dollar entrance fee, but whatever).

It wasn't quite a bucket list, but it was a beach--probably a place this inner city dog had never been.  And apparently not one she wished to be at. 

When I finally convinced her to get onto the sand, she turned her back to the ocean and stared up at the parking lot.  I was trying to have this spiritual moment with her, and she wouldn't even look at me or face the same direction as me.

I caved in: this was her time, and she liked the parking lot. 

So we wandered around the parking lot for some time.  She had to use the bathroom, but couldn't figure out where she should go.  There was no grass, just pavement, sand, and bushes.  She actually walked up to the people restroom building and sniffed the door.

"Honey, you can't go inside.  Your bathroom is everywhere but inside.  Pick a spot and go."

She seemed befuddled.  She searched around and finally, she led me around the back of the restroom building, and there she squatted.

We walked around the parking lot some more, and my thoughts still came to the same conclusion: I was not putting this dog down because I had to go to work on Monday, and I was not putting this dog down based on the advice of someone who saw her for three minutes.  I needed someone else to see her, someone who could unbiasly, but thoroughly, examine both the science of her condition, and the condition of her life.

I texted Katya to ask her to please come over.  She needed to see Stella.  And I needed to see Katya to find out more about how Stella was when she got her.  So I drove the two hours home, knowing that finally someone who deeply cared about Stella and knew her well, could give me an honest opinion.

I had brought a can of dog food on our outing, in case Stella wanted to eat by the beach, but she didn't.  Now that it was 6:30 at night, she wanted it.  I fed her, she wagged her tail, all was well.  She then lay down to digest.  It was then that Katya knocked on the door.

I was on the phone with the Burbank vet that had been too expensive earlier in the day.  Fuck it, I was going to pay for it myself.  I don't like wasting money either, but I needed to keep fighting.  Stella wanted to fight.  And I promised her I'd fight until she didn't want to fight anymore.

Katya sat with Stella, who much like when Linda and Stephanie visited, didn't move.  She wagged her tail in hello, but didn't get up for a formal greeting.  Katya said that she planned on coming over to tell me that she would take Stella Tuesday when she got back from her engagement out of town for work.  But when she saw Stella, she had something else to say.

"I didn't want to tell you this before, but Stephanie and I have been discussing this for some time.  The thing is, and I know this sounds crazy, but when I got Stella, that first night, I swear, she told me... I put down her food and she was so happy, so appreciative, but it was a 'Thank you so much. I am so glad I'm not in the shelter.  But just to be honest, I'm not going to be here much longer.  Thank you, though.  Thank you.'"

Katya had never had an experience like that.  When she met Stella she knew Stella was a special girl, and she had to take her in.  But after what Stella had told her with her eyes, she wasn't sure if maybe her purpose was to give Stella a place to be peaceful before moving on.  Every time Katya entered a room, she was worried she would find that Stella had passed away.  And when Stella was adopted, she was hesitant, wondering if maybe Stella was ready to go elsewhere.

When Stella got sick, and was in the hospital, Katya really did think that home care would make her better.  Maybe Stella had had a rough life, and after that first meal at Katya's she was like, "Okay, cool.  This is all I needed.  There is goodness in the world," and she could pass on.

But then I said yes to fostering her for a couple of weeks.  She got a bonus round she wasn't ever expecting.  And she got another person besides Katya who loved her, someone she loved back.  Maybe dying wasn't what she needed to do right now after all.  This life was worth fighting for.

And so she fought.  I have no doubts that she wanted me to fight for her.  And in fact, up until that point, I had not given her "the talk," the one you give a dog permitting them to leave if they have to, letting them know that it'll hurt like hell, but you will carry on because knowing them and loving them has made you who you are.  I didn't have that talk with her because I didn't want any negativity. 

After Katya told me about her time with Stella, which was five days actually, I looked over at Stella, and I burst into tears.  She gazed into my eyes, and confirmed what Katya had said.  Stella had told her she was ready.  But this had been too awesome to give up. But now, now she was ready.  She hadn't wanted to disappoint me.

I told her she could never disappoint me, and that if she was ready, she was ready.  But it wasn't because I had other things to do, or because I didn't love her.  If she wasn't ready, she could stay as long as she wanted.

Katya stayed for quite some time, and we discussed how to go about doing this.  All this week, and even in that day, science was telling me I had to do the humane thing: I had to let Stella go.  But I don't listen to reason.  I listen to emotion.  I knew that everything Katya was saying didn't come from bloodwork or x-rays; it came from her heart.  Stella had told Katya she was ready to go, but now I had to allow Stella to go.

Katya had to leave town for work, but she thought she had the morning free.  So with Stephanie on speakerphone, it was decided: I would take Stella to the vet's in the morning, and Katya would meet me there.  Katya and I, the two foster moms Stella had, would be by her side on her journey to her permanent forever home.

After Katya left, I had my talk with Stella, my crying, sobbing, nonsensical talk with her.  I told her that I didn't want to decide.  I didn't want to do it.  I wanted her to decide.  I wanted her to let go on her own.  But I would be there for her.  I would stay with her, be by her side.  And I would be okay.  She could go.  I would miss her, and I loved being her bonus round in life.  She deserved it.  But she would get worse from now on.  It would get harder and harder to breathe.

In fact that night I prayed that Stella would go on her own in the night.  I would be with her, and she would die peacefully in my bedroom with me by her side.  But then I took it back.  Suffocating, drowning in her lung fluid: that is not a peaceful way to die.  She deserved a better transition than that.

Stella, though, gave it her all for me.  I believed she tried with all her might to stop breathing, to let her heart rest, but Death was too busy to stop by last night.  I slept on the floor with Stella, and she let me cradle her as she slumbered and dreamt her expressive, lively dreams.  I kept whispering to her that she could go, that she could let go, that I loved her with my whole heart, but she could go.

At 6:30 in the morning, I had to get up and get ready to go.  I had to meet Katya at 8:00.  I whispered to Stella that she better not go while I was in the shower.  I thought for sure she didn't want me there.  My cell phone on my dresser had started to die some time in the night, and as I lay with Stella, I kept hearing the low battery warning go off every few minutes.  I didn't want to get up to turn it off.  I didn't want to let go of Stella.  And I kept wondering if when the low battery alarmed finally ceased and the battery went dead, if Stella, too, would be gone.

But Stella pulled through.  When I got out of the shower, she was still sleeping in the same spot on the floor.  I ate a little cereal; I felt nauseous.  How could I do this?  I hoped Stella wouldn't perk up, that she wouldn't give me a single reason to doubt my decision.  When I went to dry my hair, Stella rose from her slumber and went to the front door.  By the time I got there, she had left a little puddle.  Very unlike her.  Maybe she was shutting down.  I didn't yell at her; I just took her outside and she finished peeing.

I packed up her favorite (and cheaper) dog bed and super-soft blanket and a box of Kleenex.  At 7:30 I told Stella we were going out and she made it out the door, but then circled to go back in.  I got her to go to the parking lot.  She then sat down.  Not facing me.  She was having doubts, and I allowed her to take us back to the apartment.

She walked in and immediately went straight to the couch, hopped up, circled three times, and lay down.  I called Katya.  Through tears, I told her I couldn't do it.  Last night, Katya had said if I believe in a higher power then I should ask for a sign that what I was doing was right.  Indeed the sign did come on my final walk with Stella last night: on the brick column at the end of the driveway Stella loved so much sat a single tealight, burning bright.  I don't know where it came from, or why it was just right there and nowhere else and now one around.  But when I saw it, I had burst into tears.

Katya had her own signs that night.  She knew this is what was best for Stella.  I trusted her, but I didn't want Stella to go fighting.  I couldn't do it then.  I told Stella it had to be her decision.  Perhaps it still was that she was ready, but she just wanted the couch just one more time.  Katya suggested I tell Stella to say goodbye to the place, to have her farewells.

I talked to Stella, told her that she had been ready, and this was already so hard for me, so please, please, come.  I told her I was taking her home. So she hopped down off the couch one final time.  As we walked to the truck, I kept thinking, this is her last walk, this is the last time she'll see any of this.  This is her last moments on earth.

When I put her in the car, she collapsed into the soft blanket, and I don't know if she was weak or just accepting of it all.  But she didn't move, even to help me get her leash off.

It was a beautiful morning.  Puffy white clouds dotted the blue sky.  It was an easy, short drive, and I tried not to cry, but I did.  I cried a lot.  In fact, I still haven't really stopped crying even now. 

I pulled in, and Katya came to the passenger side door.  She said hello to Stella, who looked more pathetic than ever.  I hoped it wasn't that she truly was suffering, but that she was confirming that I wasn't making a mistake.  The fact was, Stella probably wouldn't make it until Monday.  Mia, the receptionist who had given Stella a toy, also came over to say good bye.  Stella was going to see everyone who cared about her one last time.  It was what I wanted for her.

I carried her in wrapped in that soft blanket, and Katya carried the dog bed and box of Kleenex.  She lay the dog bed down, and I placed Stella on top of it.  She didn't squirm, or try to get away like she does at vet appointments.   She had even sat serenely on my lap while we waited for the exam room to be ready.

It was so surreal.  All this life, to be ended in only a few minutes.  Just a second: one second her soul would be here in this well-worn furry body, the next gone.  I had my time with her, and allowed Katya her time with her.  Katya had never had to do this either, so we were both new to how this worked--physically and emotionally.

I couldn't do for Noodles.  I couldn't.  I told Stella what I was giving her was something I couldn't give my own dog.  And maybe that's what she was here to teach me: how to love that much to let go, and not just let go, but lead them down the pathway to end their suffering.

I didn't know it was just one shot.  I thought one put them to sleep, literally a sedative, and the next would stop their heart.  The vet said he could give her a tranquilizer first and Katya and I agreed to let her have it.  We didn't want her to feel it.  We don't know if they feel it, we only assume they don't. 

But I didn't realize a tranquilizer doesn't put a dog to sleep.  It just relaxes them.  Katya and I pet Stella, and she graciously accepted our petting and love even though we had tear-streaked faces and used more Kleenex in ten minutes then we had in five days.

When her eyes got red, Katya called the vet back and it was time.  Again, I know if my heart, I could not be a veterinarian.  I just can't.  Nor can I be a vet tech that assists.  I think while I was petting Stella, I almost accidentally poked the vet tech in the eye as he was holding her so she wouldn't move.  Luckily he was wearing glasses.

I didn't know it would hurt.  I thought it would be peaceful.  I thought it would be easy, but the next thirty seconds (it felt like minutes, but Katya told me it was only thirty seconds), as the vet pushed in the life-stopping liquid, Stella shrieked and balked and all I could do was hold her head and cry out, "I love you!  I love you!  I love you!" again and again and again. 

And then it was done.  The vet tech released his hold on Stella, and her body dropped.  And I collapsed on top of her with my arms around her.

"Why did it have to hurt?  Why did it have to hurt?" was all I kept saying as I held her lifeless body and buried my face in her fur.

Katya, who I'm sure was also crying, remained strong for me.  "It would have hurt worse if she suffocated in your home.  And if we hadn't rescued her, she would have this same fate, except she'd be the fiftieth dog that day, and she wouldn't have been held and loved, and told how much we'd miss her.  This was the best thing we could have done for her."

"But she was scared, and it hurt," I said through my tears.

"No, she wasn't scared.  It hurt, yes, but she wasn't scared."

Katya was right, and it took me many hours to realize that.  Stella hadn't balked at the leash to come in.  She hadn't let loose a flurry of dander.  She had shrieked from the pain for an injection, something that had always hurt her.  And I learned later on, this often happens to dogs who are old or dehydrated.  The injection is painful.  I just wish that hadn't been a part of her final moments.

Katya assured me that of the thirty seconds, Stella only shrieked for maybe ten seconds, and that she did experience peace for a few moments. 

A while back I had written, and said to someone, that dying in your loved ones' arms is the best way to go.  I still contend it is, but it sucks to be that loved one.

I had written that Stella would teach me a lot, but I was expecting lessons like how to make a hollandaise sauce, not how to love someone enough to put an end to their suffering.  When we had first arrived and were waiting for the vet, Stella lay on the table and stared out the window.  Katya said, "It's like she's saying, 'Yes, I'm ready...but one more day.  Please.  Just one more day like this.'"

No matter when, we always ask for one more day.  But one more day could be more suffering.  I don't think Stella thinks I betrayed her.  I do believe she was ready to go when she was with Katya, but after experiencing such goodness between being with her and then being with me, she was up for fighting it for a while.  But eventually, it was just too much.

I don't know if it was cancer or distemper.  I need to believe she did have a terminal illness.  I need to believe I did what was right for her.  Katya said, "She loves you so much; you can see it."  But I didn't see it.  Stephanie had said that she could see the way Stella and I looked at each other, that there was a bond there.  But to me, that's what's always there, with any dog that enters my life. I'm going love them just as hard as I love any other, and I believe they love me back.

Death had been chasing Stella around the neighborhood for quite some time.  And Stella even had waited as his gate for a time, but when she met me, she felt like walking away; Death could wait.  She came with me, and I gave her hope and love and warmth.  But eventually, she returned to Death's front gate.  She could wait alone, but I would not let her do such a thing.  She could go in by herself, but it's a terrifying place.  And so, with all the love in my heart, I listened to, and fulfilled, her request.  I lifted her up, walked through the gate, up to the front porch, and rang the doorbell.

Stella was ready.  And perhaps by allowing Death this one, he'll turn a blind eye next time he sees me sneaking across his lawn.  Cause I'm not going to stop what I'm doing.  I'm still coming back to steal puppies off his porch; I'm still going to transport; I'm still going to foster; I'm still going to love with my whole heart and everything else I got. 

I wish Stella could have gotten better.  Perhaps with a different line of treatment a month ago, she could have.  But it was beyond repair at this point.  I didn't want to admit it, but Stella accepted it.  She had a fabulous bonus round.  She touched a lot of people's lives.  And now she joins Noodles and Dutchess as one of the dogs who has taught me how to love.

I cannot repay you enough, Stella.  I hope the last thing you heard was me telling you "I love you," and the last thing you felt wasn't pain, but the love I had--and will always have--for you.

May you find open fields to run in, and canine friends to play with.  May you rest in peace, knowing that even if it was for just a short time, you were in a forever home, my forever home, and you will forever be in my heart.

 Stella Isabella 

b. unknown

d. 11/06/10

The Meaning of Forever (Home)

I'm finding it difficult to keep up on this blog while attending to Stella.  If she's having a good day, then I want to be there every moment enjoying it with her, and when she's having a bad day, I want to be with her so it might not be so scary for her.

Since I regained a little bit of hope, I put an end to all stress for Stella.  No expectations, no stress, just her living every moment she has however she would like.  I wish I could say they are all good moments, but they are not. 

Stephanie and Linda came to visit on Saturday, shortly after Stella had just spent half an hour sunbathing on the sidewalk.  Her routine is that when she is done with the heat, she walks back in the door, turns to her immediate right, and collapses on the floor with her head uncomfortably leaning on the bookcase.  I shoved a towel between her head and the shelf, but she didn't thank me--and even appeared a little annoyed by it.

She continued to lie there while Stephanie and Linda visited.  Stella took every biscuit and treat Stephanie handed her.  It's bizarre to have houseguests that stop and sit on the floor within two feet of the doorway, but that's where we all ended up, around Stella.  I was worried because this was the big test: how did Stella seem in comparison to how she was at the vet's?  Stephanie had visited Stella often there and seen her at her worst.  Stephanie's assessment was that Stella was not as symptomatic as she was at the vet's.  There, both nostrils were constantly running with green goo, not like a leaky faucet, but like a faucet turned on full blast.  Stella couldn't even inhale.  I was glad to hear she looked better, because for me, Stella looked like shit compared to how she had been only hours before... and an hour after they left of course.

Stephanie did get to witness Stella awaken from her siesta and sit at her spot waiting for her afternoon meal like a kid who just got home and wants his afterschool snack.

And she admitted that seeing Stella be able to eat, that clearly she had lost her front teeth some time ago.  This was not a new problem for Stella.  However, her teeth are rotting inside her mouth.  This might even be the cause of the infection.  Unfortunately, no dental work can be done on her since she can't go under, and kicking up the bacteria could make it travel into her bloodstream straight to her heart.  Like not dusting your living room for a year as to not get your allergies going (excellent excuse), we can't clean Stella's mouth for fear the crud will move and cause even more damage.

Despite my belief that Stella's teeth are bugging her (she doesn't eat as much, and might be playing me since she only wants to eat out of my hand), she does use her mouth for redecorating her space.  I never know how I'm going to find things when I return after leaving the room for five minutes or five hours.  It's a pretty cool thing to watch: she makes decisions on how she wants things arranged.  When she's unsure about her next move, she sits, cocks her head to one side, and lifts a paw.  "Hmmmm...."

Then she'll grab her big dog pillow by the corner and move it five inches from where it lay.  Next she'll take the new big blanket I got her and drag it over to the pillow.  (It's unbelievably soft and it was only eight dollars!)  She'll change her mind, drag her other pillow off the couch, maybe take the towel and lay it in the sunlight.  A dog that takes the time to make herself comfortable is not a dog ready to give up on life.

She loved the new blanket so much in fact, that getting her to leave it to use the facilities was a two step process.  First the denial ("Do I have to?"):

Then the acceptance by simply rolling over and looking as pathetically put out as she can:

Making sure I knew exactly how upsetting it was for her to leave the blanket, she followed my lead out the door.

For not being a maternal person, I sure am making purchases like one.  At Walgreens (where I made the impulse buy of the blanket), I had bought: 1. baby nasal aspirator, 2. Pedialite, and 3. "Boogie Wipes."  Yes, they trademarked "boogie wipes."  Stella hates the aspirator.  I think dogs' noses are too wide for the baby nasal thing to work properly, but it does get some stuff out.  I do fear that in only a short time she's going to be right back where she was a month ago, with fully running faucets out of her face releasing green sludge.

It's clear that she has made herself at home here.  Besides changing the furniture around to suit her desires, she also has made the assumption that she owns the couch.  Two of my friends came over last night and were sitting on the couch while I was sitting on the floor with Stella, cleaning her nose.  When we were finished, Stella got up, walked over to the couch, saw that people were there, walked by to the hallway, paw up in confusion, then tried to look over the couch from that angle.  "What are those creatures there for?  That's my space."

I told Stella she could join them on the couch; there was still room.  She tried from one side, knew there was no way to get up and then went to the other side of the coffee table.

"Stella, you can get up there.  It's okay.  They'll share your space."

She sat shyly, and my two friends moved a foot to the right on the couch so Stella could have room.  I walked over, asked if she wanted to get up, and she wagged her tail.  "Yes, please."

I lifted her up, she sat down, said an awkward hello to the intruders of her space, and then curled up with her head on her pillow.

She is a very sweet dog.  I keep imagining some eight year old asking her daddy for a puppy.  Her dad brings home some sort of mixed breed puppy a neighbor's dog had in the backyard and the little girl christened this tri-colored puppy with a messed up ear and crooked tail, "Princess Isabella."  I think she was loved at one time, but something went awry.  Whether that little girl grew up and moved away, or her parents couldn't afford to care for Isabella/Stella anymore, I don't know. 

And I don't know if Stella ever will have a forever home, if this is her last stop before forever ends.  Not that I'm adopting her, but by default, this is as far as forever goes for Stella.  The vet did send her fluids in to be tested, and we'll know more in a day or two.  In the meantime, I'm not relying on science; just on my gut instinct. 

And this afternoon, my gut instinct thought this was indeed the end for Stella.  She hadn't been outside to use the bathroom since 9:00 a.m., and it was already 3:00.  I had been gone running errands, and needed to do more, so I asked her to come outside.  I thought she was okay.  She even wagged her tail when I walked in the room.  But when we got outside, she circled to go back inside.  When I insisted that we keep going, she made it to the parking lot and then she sat down and slowly lowered herself down to be lying on the blacktop.  It was ninety degrees.  I don't understand how this didn't burn her.  But she refused to get up.  When I tugged a little she flattened her neck out on the ground.  She was beginning to scare me.  My parents told me that the day my dog Dutchess passed away, they had come home, let her out of hr crate, and when  Dutchess walked to the door to go out, she stopped suddenly.  That was the beginning of the end.  And I thought this was Stella stopping suddenly.

But I tried to keep hope.  Maybe she just wanted to be in the sun.  So I let her be there a minute or two, and then asked for her to get up.  She did, we went down to the sidewalk, and in a section of bushes and terribly overgrown grass where she had peed before, Stella walked in and then collapsed onto her side.  My heart skipped a beat and I tried not to panic.

Stella was still moving, her eyes were open, and she was rubbing her head on the long pillow of grass she had created in her fall.  I let her lie there, and after a few moments, a thought, "What if she dies here?"  I thought she was choosing her spot.  In the high weeds.  In the shade.  Surrounded by the scent of grass.

She didn't get up.  I really thought this was it.  I lifted her out of the bed of tall grass and carried her back inside.  There I laid her on her dog pillow, and she made no motion to readjust herself.  I cradled her and pet her while she looked at me with her eyes half-closed.  I tried not cry.  I hoped it wouldn't be painful for her.  I hoped it wouldn't be painful for me.  As I sat there petting her, I thought how my dogs didn't die in front of me.  I wondered if Stella would.  And I wondered if now that we had a connection, that she wouldn't let herself die.  The will to live cannot be measured by science.  It goes against test results, visual symptoms, and all logic.

The thing is, I don't foster indefinitely until a dog gets a home.  When I foster, there's always an end date: a plane for them to catch, a home to go to, another leg in their journey to wherever their final destination be--a rescue, foster, or forever home.  But the longer Stella is here, the more it's hitting me that this might very well be Stella's final destination.  It's only been a little over two weeks.  And although I think she's bored out of her skull, Stephanie thinks that Stella might enjoy the tranquility and peace and quiet of my apartment.  I know it's better than the shelter, but maybe she'd like to be with other dogs too.

I've decided that if the test results come back as cancer, it's time for Stella's bucket list.  We're heading out of a town for some fresh air, and a chance for her to sunbathe without me standing six feet away from her holding a leash.  It's strange how we await test results.  The result is already true.  Meaning, that the only thing that changes is our knowledge.  The fact has been so since the test was taken, and probably for some time before then.

I'm here for Stella.  I don't want her to die alone.  I would feel enormous guilt if I was out and about and then came home to find that she had passed away alone in my empty apartment (probably not really empty... there is that visitor at the end of the couch.)  When I was sitting with her today, I realized I had to be there for her, with her.

I make a commitment to every dog: that no harm will come to them while under my care.  For the past few weeks, I was looking at death as a mighty big harm.  But maybe if I don't look at it that way... maybe if I just see it as a transition, I won't be breaking my promise to them.  I would still be helping Stella to her forever home.  It's just not the forever home I had been imagining.  As with any dog I take to their home, I stay with them as long as it takes for them become comfortable, and I wait until they give me the sign that they're going to be okay.  Then I can cut the apron strings and walk away, knowing another soul has found his forever home.  I just need to keep that same attitude if I find myself again sitting with Stella's head on my lap and looking into her eyes, and this time, she really is about to take her very last breath.