Moving On Without Your Best Friend
I do not know the origins of Pip’s name. I’m sure my mother came up with it. It fit her perky personality as a pup and it helped she answered to any variation. Pipperdoodle when around designer dogs. Pipperoni when scavenging food that fell on the floor. Pippo when she gained too much weight. And Pippen, which I always thought was her actual name until I saw her AKC papers.
Notice I’m using the past tense. Pip isn’t here anymore.
For the past week I’ve moved through days in a quiet state of grief. Bawling over an abandoned, half-eaten cheeseburger in her food bowl—her final meal, it turned out. Sobbing when removing her favorite blanket and leftover treats. Sniffling after tossing her medicated shampoos and unused prescriptions and giving another family our scented poop bags and extra-large pee pads.
It didn’t seem right to remove all the void reminders so quickly, like she wasn’t worth mourning. But Tuesday was trash day, so I reluctantly trashed the fake grass pad she used in the wee hours (pun intended) after too many close calls with coyotes. She came to confuse the balcony's artificial turf with bedroom carpet, and after a while we just left out the steam cleaner and Nature’s Miracle spray. I still can’t bring myself to touch her collar or leash or dog toys. I can’t even muster the strength to donate her unopened dog food to a shelter.
It’s been a few years since I’ve experienced grief this deep. Most of us aren’t given the same grace period to bereave a beloved pet as we are a family member or close friend. This despite some of the deceased being less deserving by comparison.
I have many good memories of Pip. She saved me after my world turned upside down, a reliable source of comfort when no one else was. For months, I couldn’t sleep well, and apparently neither could she. She’d whine in the middle of the night, and I’d put on a thick coat and snow boots and take her out in the still, six-degree Oregon air. It wasn’t until early summer, when outdoor conditions improved, that I discovered Pip hadn’t wanted to go out in the middle of the night; she just wanted to burrow under bedcovers.
If I stayed up all night working in my home office, she stayed with me. If I was sick in bed, she spooned to keep me close. She loved my grandsons and would kiss their chubby little cheeks despite everyone yelling “Pip!” in unison to make her stop. She enjoyed the head scratches and compliments from neighbors ("That a blue nose? She's gorgeous!") and stuffing both tennis balls in her mouth when she trotted back to the house from early morning park runs.
Even in her final days, Pip still got up when I held the leash and still jumped into bed when it was time to sleep. She made midnight rounds to check on everyone and maybe find a discarded chip in my nephew’s trash bin. She tried to eat the new dog food we introduced despite a lack of appetite. During her last weekly bath, she resisted the much-needed mouth rinse like always.
We’d had close calls in recent months, where I’d make a vet appointment and cry and cuddle the night before believing this was our final time together. I’d get teary wondering if this was her last time sniffing the jasmine along our walkway or listening to the red hawks making a racket up the embankment. Then she’d perk up at the vet’s place, and I’d be convinced her decline was reversable with the right medications or meals.
But last Friday night while we were watching TV, her breathing became labored and then lost its rhythm. I called an emergency vet hospital I’d used when she once broke out in hives. They told us to bring her in.
The hospital still offered curbside service only, and I remember Pip looking back at us as the vet tech gently led her into the building. She was afraid, and so were we. A gorgeous sunset was unfolding that we could not appreciate, and after an hour of refusing tests that would not change the outcome, we went in to say goodbye.
Years ago, on a car trip from Oregon to San Diego, Pip proved a terrible passenger—even when we let her ride shotgun. She whined incessantly, forcing us to stop at every rest area and adding hours to already long days. An hour from home, I turned on an Indigo Girls song. Pip calmed down immediately. From then on, when Pip seemed agitated, I put on Emily and Amy, and she settled down. As we sat on the floor in the exam room, encouraging her to lay down on a giraffe-patterned blanket, I played her favorite Indigo Girl songs. She went quickly – within 10 seconds of the drug hitting her system. We’d made the right decision.
It’s all the other decisions since I’ve been second-guessing. Did I return to work too quickly, given the unnecessary arguments and errors on my account? Did I stick with original plans for dinner and a movie when I should have kept vigil at home, to honor her importance in our family and in my life? Pip represented more than companionship; she was the last link to my late parents. She never placed conditions on our relationship, never treated love as transactional. She forced me into conversations with neighbors I’d otherwise ignore. She respected her role as a home security system (provided no one saw past the fierce barks to a wagging tail).
Death is a part of life, and dogs rarely outlive their families. It’s only after they’re gone that we realize how much of us they took with them. Pip was quirky, kind and loyal. At 13.5 years old, she lived longer than her breed average. I’d like to think her longevity was due to our care, but deep down I think it’s because she cared so much for us.
