4173 days

Note: this essay is not meant for an audience wider than myself and those friends and family who either knew Soleil, or those who have traversed this sort of sorrow and who understand all too well the deep, heavy grief that accompanies the loss of a beloved animal companion. This is primarily a vessel for me to consign thoughts and snippets of memories while they are still vivid and strong. I have a tendency to lock away the most painful memories…they do remain, but under a sort of psychic lock and key, greyed out by my brain as it does its utmost to protect me from myself. I know that with the passage of time, I will become able to smile at all of the wonderful memories and moments, but for now, in the rawness of the immediate aftermath, everything about Soleil is infused with grief and pain.

 

First, here is a very brief synopsis of what happened, to give context and to fill in the blanks for those who were shocked at the news. Because it was shocking. The entire horrible scene played out in four hours, three of which were the actual drive to the vet and back. We live in a remote area, and as is the wont of crises, things happened in the evening, when our regular vet was closed, and the nearest emergency hospital was 130km to the south. At six pm, life was fine. At 10pm, we came back through our front door having exchanged 60 pounds of dog for a crippling sack of sorrow.

 

It was horrific. and I don't know what I would have done if I had been on my own, if Tim hadn't been home. As it happens, he had planned to go grocery shopping in Huntsville Thursday evening, and then I told him of my plans to go Friday and he decided just to wait and come along with me.

 

Soleil came and sat beside me around 18:00, and I petted her head a bit then she lay down on the floor at my feet. Nothing unusual there. She'd eaten her dinner fine just an hour before. Half an hour or so later, I gave each of the dogs a biscuit and Soleil didn't eat hers. She has never, ever refused food. That alarmed me. Then when she went to get up she was staggering and couldn't get her feet under her. She lay back down and I lay on the floor with her and told Tim to call the emergency clinic down in Barrie. Her breathing was laboured. Tim picked her up and carried her out to the car, and I lay in the back with her all the way down. She tried to get up a couple of times but could do no better than a sitting position. The last time she lay back down she folded her front legs under her like a horse or a foal does...a dog never lies like that. The vets brought her in on a stretcher, and because of f***ing covid of course we could not go in with her, and we had to wait for the vet to call us. He came out to speak with us about 20 minutes later and told us that she had a mass around her spleen and it was bleeding. Suspected Hemangiosarcoma. There was nothing we could do except say goodbye. The emergency clinic had a special room that we were allowed into, so we could be with her. They had put her on a gurney on a lovely soft green towel, with a knitted blanket over her. Her IV bandage had little hearts on it. She was already somewhat sedated when they brought her in, and it was over in a matter of seconds. I stood by her head and told her what a good, brave girl she was, and I told her thank you.

 

Tim had to drive us home 150km in the rain, with me wailing and sobbing and hyperventilating in the passenger seat. I am horrified that this may have been in her for a while and that she's been in pain and I let that happen. I am absolutely wrecked by this.

 

I can't focus on anything else, and I am surprised I managed to write all of this without bawling.

 

Soleil was 11 and a half years old. Dogs don’t live forever. I get that. But that doesn’t prevent us from wanting or hoping – or expecting, vainly – that they will outlive those odds. No matter how long they live, it’s never enough.

 

 

Soleil came to us at 8 weeks old, and for the majority of her life, I have been home with her every day. For the first four years, she shared her life with Mira, aka the Brown Dog, and after that, with Arwen, her own niece. In early 2020, we brought Nutmeg into the mix, because Arwen was so imprinted and bonded to Soleil that she shrieked and cried any time we put any distance between the two of them. We reckoned that Soleil was getting on in age and that Arwen would be devastated when ‘’the time’’ came. We just didn’t count on ‘’the time’’ being so soon. Perhaps the higher powers steered us presciently on this decision. I always scan the dog adoption posts on social media, and generally I content myself in reading the comments and seeing the numerous offers of good homes, absolving myself of any need to act. I had never considered throwing my hat into the ring, but something about Nutmeg’s photo drew me in. And even as I made contact as a potential adopter, I didn’t expect to be chosen. And even when I was chosen, I didn’t know if all three dogs would get along. But they did, and Nutmeg made three, until two days ago.

Many people reading this will be aware that I took a photo of Soleil each and every day that she was with us, from June 25, 2009 to November 26, 2020. That’s 4173 days without a single miss. I know her so well, from every angle, every expression, every mood, every season, every stage of life. I can see her clearly at all of those stages, from the puppy I cradled in my arms to the gangly, cheeky adolescent; the lovely, sensitive adult; and most lately the talkative, quirky, sweet senior. 4173 days, with adventures stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, from Lake Superior to Florida. That’s a good, long dog life.

 

When Nutmeg joined the pack in February, the dynamic shifted, as did the routine, but it was all good. I couldn’t take all three dogs for walks at once, so I had to do it in shifts. Deciding who would go out alone was akin to that logic puzzle of taking a goat and a cabbage and a wolf across the river in one canoe. Arwen could not be left alone; she would go berserk with upset. So it had to be Arwen plus Soleil or Arwen plus Nutmeg, then the third dog would go on a solo walk. Initially, I would take Nutmeg out first then put her in her ‘’bin’’ (crate) and take Soleil and Arwen out. I slipped and broke my elbow in early May, so then Tim was seconded to help with walks and we took all three out at once. By the time my elbow healed, it was swimming season, and because Arwen and Nutmeg loved swimming and Soleil could take it or leave it, I switched up the combinations and Soleil got the solo walks. Compared to the mad charge of the young ones who couldn’t get to the lake fast enough, this daily ritual was a pleasant, peaceful amble around the village and through the woods, or down to the lake, where I would sit on the rock outcrop as she paddled around shoulder deep and had a drink. I think Soleil enjoyed the one-on-one time and it made her feel special.

 

In May, Soleil developed an eye issue that caused a lot of discharge and a slight closing of one eye. She’d had an ulcer in the fall, in the other eye, and we’d managed to treat and heal it. But this one was not responding to eyedrops, and I delayed longer than I should to take her to the vet because, frankly, when a dog gets to 10 or so you have to think that any and every issue may be the end game, and that the next vet visit may produce a dreaded diagnosis. With the help of a couple of vets, and an ignominious week of 24-7 Elizabethan collar-wearing, we did finally get that eye issue under control and healed. By this time, it was mid-June, and I had the subtle sense that Soleil was slowing down.

 

Of course, this was to be expected. She was less limber and quick going up and down stairs, and she dragged her feet from time to time when she walked. She needed a boost to get up on the bed. I put her on CBD oil to keep the aches and pains of old age at bay. She was still perky and playful and fully participating in whatever mayhem or noise the other two were wreaking, but she was beginning to act like an old dog…or perhaps I was finally admitting to myself that she was just that. I began catering to her: sometimes if she was curled up in the laz-y-boy chair, I would bring her biscuit to her when the other two got a treat in the kitchen. I called this ‘’room service’’. One of her favourite spots to lay down was the landing of the stairs, because from that perch she could see out through the front door and watch the world go by. Again, if it was cookie time in the downstairs kitchen, I’d stretch my arm up through the banister railing and a soft, unseen mouth would take the proffered treat. I noticed that more and more she began settling down in proximity to wherever Tim or I were working or sleeping, so as to keep is in sight and earshot.

 

As summer wore on and became autumn, an insidious voice in my head began to tell me I was losing her. There was no evidence to suggest this: she’d had a bout of vomiting and diarrhea in October, but a course of antibiotics had cleared it up right away, and with Soleil like most Labradors such issues are not uncommon. She was still eating well, bossing the other two around, barking at other dogs and cars on the street, and regularly getting her snake out of the toy box to come trotting into the kitchen with it, wanting to be rewarded with a cookie. Take that, little voice!

I reasoned that this voice was simply me subconsciously bracing for the inevitable: I was being melodramatic and hypersensitive and expecting the worst. I told my little voice to shut up. Defiantly, I bought Soleil a new collar for Christmas, with a northern lights design on it, and a new kong toy with ribbons, because the other two dogs had destroyed hers. So there, little voice!

 

When Soleil staggered and collapsed on Thursday evening, when I asked Tim to call the vet, and as he drove us through the dark and rain and I lay beside her, talking to her softly, the voice was omnipresent. As we waited for news from the vet, I already knew what it would be. Not the details, just the outcome. I felt as if I was looking at myself from a far distance, separated from a scene that I simply could not bear, but had no choice but to let play out. We managed to be brave for her while she needed us, to the very last breath, and then the glassy surreality shattered into a thousand sharp, tiny pieces.

 

Over the last month or so, there has been a mud puddle along the snowmobile trail that Soleil and I follow for part of our walk. More often than not, I would stop at this stupid, ordinary puddle and photograph autumn leaves floating in it, or reflections of the trees. Soleil would sit and wait patiently, and since I took a picture of her every day, and I had the camera at the ready, I would often also photograph her at this spot. It got to the point that even if I was not photographing the puddle, she would stop beside it and want to have her picture and treat.

 

On that last day, the day that began like any other, we went for our morning walk, and she stopped near the (now snow-covered) puddle, and looked up expectantly for a treat. I asked her to sit and backed away so that I could frame in some of the snowy background. Soleil has been taught to wave her paw in a true, distinctive ‘’high five’’. She never really does it on her own, but will do it immediately when asked. On that morning, she lifted her paw of her own volition. Whether it was to prompt me to hurry up already with the treat, or to say goodbye, I will never know.

We are at the stage now, two days later, where tears are primed and ready at the slightest prompt, of which there are so, so many. Just this afternoon, a white blanket over the arm of the laz-y-boy had me thinking it was her head propped on the armrest, as she so often would sleep. I am still getting cookies out of the jar in multiples of three. This morning, on my run, I looked down at my sports watch and riding along on the glass was a single white dog hair. Yesterday evening, Nutmeg, who has never shown any interest in the snake, brought Soleil’s toy upstairs. This afternoon, I asked Tim to put Arwen’s tag on the Northern Lights collar, and we fell crying into each other’s arms. Arwen will carry the mantle of her big sister.

 

 

Soleil will never be far away.

 

Perhaps that persistent little voice was the motivation behind two paintings that I did recently – one that captures her essence, and one that captures her bond with me. And I know that I will use my art to spend time with her many more times in the future.

 

Yesterday, in a context having nothing to do with Soleil, a friend shared the following Shakespeare sonnet. I had never read it before, but it expressed so perfectly what we are living here right now. Especially the final couplet, which is perhaps the most fitting way to close this. If you have read this far, you either loved Soleil or you love me, and I love you right back.

 

Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

 

 

 

I could write about what a wonderful, special dog she was.

I could write about all the I-wish-we’d-just-had-one-more trip to the ocean, one more Christmas, one more swim in the lake, one more bedtime cuddle, one more paw on the knee.

I could write about the pure, sweet, unfettered love she gave us every day of her life.

But right now, all I can write about is the void that she has left behind.

Thank you, my love, for all that you gave, and for all that you were and always will be.

 

I am a box of

Sorrow and loss

Hollow, dark and dull.

How can a heart be

so emptied out

And yet remain

so full?