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.
beautiful. glad Hana was there at the right time for you. and my favorite pic is the one of her sleeping on your leg. the 7th one down from the top!
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