We said goodbye to our precious shih tzu Lily today. It’s mild and sunny—a perfect Michigan spring offering. Dylan has a soccer game and Alexa is packing up to come home from college. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that life goes on with this hole in our lives that Lily has left. We are heartbroken. But she has chosen today to go.

Anyone who has ever loved a dog won’t say, “She was just a dog.” Anyone who has ever loved a dog will understand how much they are part of our families, how much we adore them and how much we miss them when they go.

Death is a process whether it’s human or canine, and it’s so very hard. It is labored breathing and terrible discomfort. It is the agony of seeing those we love in pain. It is knowing that we’ll never see them again. Terry says the house is very quiet—not because Lily ever made much noise at all—but because we’re not talking to her. Sure, we’re talking with each other, but our conversations with her have ended.

There is the before and the after. Before, when we were taking photos of Dylan for prom and when Terry and I were having an ordinary dinner at the pizza place. Before we knew that in a matter of hours everything would be different. And the after—what we did once we knew, and how we spent all the possible last hours together with Lily comforting her as best we could.

We humans love to look for patterns and the more skeptical among us say that we manufacture them. I choose to think that we don’t—that really there is magic and form in the way things happen. When we went to the breeder to select Lily from among the puppies, she chose us. As we sat on the floor with Alexa (7) and Dylan (3) and the puppies bubbling around us, Lily came right over to Alex. Lily was already loving us. She died in Dylan’s arms. Alex says Lily came full circle with she and Dylan. The children grew up, and Lily grew old.

As Dylan was holding Lily before she died I asked him how many thousand times he thought he’d held her in his arms. “Not enough,” he said. Indeed, not enough. Never enough.

As my friend Lisanne says, dogs teach us how to love. It is their job and they teach us that it is also ours. Lily’s super power was loving. She was stubborn, and she was no watch dog, but she loved, and after that she loved, and after that, loved us some more. Some of my favorite memories are of Lily and the kids. She was a playmate, a companion and a friend to them. Loving Lily wasn’t just about her, it was also about our love for the children and how they loved her. We love others—humans or pets—for themselves, and also for how we are—how our family is—when we’re with them.

Alex wasn’t here for Lily’s death. She is at school in Boston 766 miles away. But when we talked to Alex on the phone, Lily recognized her voice. Love doesn’t have to be about physical presence. The spirit of love—us in their hearts and we in theirs—is powerful and important stuff. This doesn’t help Alex too much, but hopefully it helps some.

Dying is hard and real and painful. As our vet (the incredible human, Dr. Jim Havenga) says, all his clients die. I understand it is reality. To extend life through heroics is really for us, not our loved one. The body needs an exit strategy. Lily’s exit was today even though we weren’t ready (and never would have been), she was, and for that reason we let her go and said our goodbyes.

Some people believe that dogs don’t go to heaven. I disagree. How could heaven be heaven for humans without dogs? And how could heaven be denied to such special and amazing creatures as dogs? Terry’s dad, Grandpa Cal, died about 7 years ago. Lily was crazy about him. He was crazy about her. Surely, he welcomed her, and she is cuddling with him now.

Life goes on. As Fredrik Backman says in one of my favorite books, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, “The mightiest power of death…is that it can make the people left behind want to stop living.” I’m not sure I want to stop living…but I am not enthusiastic to live without Lily. Of course, I’m heartened that she is now without the pain of her last days, but in general, I wish she could be with us forever. It doesn’t feel quite right that life goes on without her, but it does. Life goes on—with soccer games and moving out of the dorm. It will continue to go on. But we will never be the same—in a good way—for having loved Lily.

We humans are shaped by a lot of experiences—not the least of which are our lives with our pets and our love for them.

 

 

 

 

 

*Photo credit: Marie Clark Photography.

*The best vet ever, The Animal Clinic and Dr. Jim Havenga and Dr. Sue Vanderjagt.