It’s been 7 days, but I can’t take a shower. If I take a shower it will be the first since he’s gone. For the first time in 15 years I’ll be stepping out of the shower alone. No eager eyes looking up at me, no one, tail wagging, padding over to me so he can lick my ankles. He won’t be there whining until I’m toweled off, ready to leave the bathroom and join him in his dryness. For 15 years I had to take quick showers, speedily shaving and scrubbing before he’d start howling impatiently after my two minutes were up.
Now I can relax and take my time. But I don’t want to. I’d give anything not to be able to take a long shower.
There just aren’t any words to describe how I feel. At least I don’t seem to be able to find them. I have no currency to express this. The word ‘love’ can’t contain what it means. How did I love him, I can’t “count the ways”. There is the way you love your husband, the way you love your mother, the way you wish your mother loved you. There are the ways you love your friends, all the slightly different ways you love each one, like beautiful colors on a palette. Then there’s the way I love Dr. Waffles.
Humans and dogs have been living together and loving one another for thousands of years. Like their ancestors, dogs are pack animals. Like our ancestors, human beings want to feel loved. Dogs offer a loyalty, focused attention, intensity, and an unconditional, blind adoration. They give you an uncritical gaze, an empathetic ear, and a tireless shoulder to cry on. Dogs are always happy to see you, long to be near you, and will follow you to the ends of the earth. When you’re happy they add to your joy. When you’re sad they’re your salvation.
“We long for an affection altogether ignorant of our faults. Heaven has accorded this to us in the uncritical canine attachment.” – George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans)
In my life I seldom felt loved but Dr. Waffles made home a place where I knew love was available, and that was priceless. I’ve never felt as loved as Dr. Waffles made me feel. He didn’t care how I looked, what I said or did, what I forgot to say or didn’t do. He had no opinions about me, no hopes for me to change. He just loved me. I know some people hate it when you call your dog your baby, and I know he wasn’t “my baby”. But he felt like my baby – a baby I’d known, loved, coddled and who’s looked up at me with what felt like adoration for 15 years.
If you take a picture and cut something out of it, say a tree or a boat, all you’ll see when you look at that picture is that cut-out, that hole where something is missing. That’s what it’s been like here, a void that’s too quiet and yet somehow deafening. What he gave me is gone, and now everywhere I turn there are things to make me flinch with grief. And for me, grief is the most agonizing emotion. It’s raw, it throbs, it has you aching so much you’re sore and exhausted inside and out. Your grief asks how can I be in this new lonely world? I don’t know how to live in it, and I know I’ll have to.
True, sometimes it was hard to take. If I stood up, he’d stand up, following me from room to room. He howled when I left home and when I came back. Even when I was home, if I were behind a closed door he’d scratch and whimper until we were back within a six-foot radius of one another. Dr. Waffles couldn’t be left alone. My husband and I couldn’t go out together without a babysitter here to calm his terror. He insisted on sleeping next to me, and was always happiest when we were in bed together.
But Dr. Waffles had funny outturned front legs, two snaggle teeth that stuck out, and a jaunty gait that always made me smile. He loved playing fetch, except he never quite got down the part where you bring back the toy. Waffles wasn’t the sharpest tool in shed, but that only adds to his allure.
The last few weeks I saw him slowing down, but that’s what old dogs do, right? It wasn’t until he refused his food that I started to really worry. He’d eat snacks, but turned his nose up at his breakfast and dinner. We bought him all kinds of different foods, but he wasn’t interested. This was a dog who’d wake us up each morning at dawn, demanding his meal. We’re talking about a dog who’d eat his own shit if you let him. I watched him napping all day, his breathing more labored than I remembered. Scared by his not eating his food, I contacted a friend who recommended a vet who did house calls. I explained the symptoms to the vet and sent him a video of my dog’s stomach rapidly going up and down. The vet explained what he thought was happening and told me my Doctor didn’t have many days left. I sobbed and handed my husband the phone. Could I be brave enough and loving enough to do the kind thing? He wasn’t too uncomfortable now but he soon would be. The vet said he had an available slot the next morning, Friday at 11:30.
I hung up, with an assurance that he wouldn’t put him down if it turned out it wasn’t that bad. The phone call ended around noon. I got into bed with Dr. Waffles. I lay my head next to his, sobbing and hoping we could each let go. There was less than 24 hours and I stayed up all night, crying and watching his stomach go up and down. When morning came the news wasn’t good and I had to make the decision. I was told it was the right thing, the loving thing, the kind thing. Intellectually I knew that was right… still. The jaunty, loving boy who always sought me out, who followed me, trusted me. It felt like a horrible betrayal. I crumpled up in sadness, grief and a searing guilt. The vet talked me through what would happen and I cuddled my boy for the last time. I told him how much I loved him, I told him I was sorry, and over and over again, I told him thank you for what he’d given me.
Dr. Waffles was sedated, and when the time came for the second shot I left the bedroom and crawled to the living room. I wonder, did my sobbing sound like howls? Did he whimper while I showered because even just a few feet away, our short separation felt unbearable? Waffles, if we could go back in time, I would have made my showers even shorter. Because now I have to live through a very long separation.
Right now, I’m standing in my bathroom, staring at the little trash can by the sink. I can’t bring myself to throw out the bag inside. Dr. Waffles was still alive when that trash bag started. And now comes the hard part. I realize that, sooner or later, I’ll have to take a shower. And this time it will be a long shower, and the only one crying will be me.
My Heart breaks with yours.
I am sobbing. This is a beautifully written piece that describes the hardest part of loving an animal. Much love to you!
Bev, thank you so much. I know you know how it feels. It’s so hard with Dr. Waffles because he was LITERALLY my *constant* companion.
Dearest Dixie…
Our hearts are broken for you as we know how deeply you love Dr. Waffles and he loved you. Your love gave him a most wonderful life and he so enriched yours. Carry these cherished memories always and May your heart be comforted and you smile once again with these memories of Dr.Waffles. You were an incredible mother to him.
We love you and are holding you tight.
Thank you you much. #mishbucha
I live this with my sweet girl Sophie. I understand. I am so sorry
Eileen, I know you know. Thank you. xo
Big big hugs to you honey. I’m tearing up. Love you and Dr Waffles so much.
Valerie, my sweet friend. I love you. Thank you.
Oh Dixie. My heart goes out to you. You did the most loving thing a being can do with another being which is to let them leave this life in the arms of someone who loves them. You helped his suffering end.
Sally, your kind words mean a lot to me. Thank you.
I read every word and it moved me. Thank you, Dixie. I’m sorry for the pain you have to bear.
Thank you so much, Gene.
I’m real sorry Dixie, Dr. Waffles was so lucky to have you. You wrote a beautiful dametown eulogy in his honor – thank you for sharing your heart here.
Thank you so much, Eva. Your kindness means a lot.
I understand your feelings so, so we’ll, and I thank you for having written out exactly what it feels like to lose a pet—and I think maybe especially for those of us with less than rosy origin stories. I especially feel for you for the last night spent together—how terrifying and upsetting that must have been for you! Thinking of you (I didn’t wash my dog Shadow’s bowl for a whole year after he died, so you do you).
Thank you so much, Debbie. I know you know *exactly* what I’m talking about. Thank you so much for your empathy and friendship. xo
Dixie, I love you so much. I am so sorry for what you’re going through, but I am glad Dr. Waffles got to spend his life with you.
Thank you, Lisa. I know that YOU know exactly what I’m talking about.
Thank you so much, Diana.
I have no words. Just giant hugs and big love. I’m so sorry.
Thank you, Lynn. Your support really helps.
Elegantly expressed, Dixie. And I know you’re still right in the middle of it. It’s a beautiful and loving tribute.
Love you, dear one.
Thank you, sweet Susan.
beautifully written, thank you for sharing, Dixie. My little William died exactly one year ago in my bed — and it is still very difficult. I understand the pain. You gave Dr. Waffles a magnificent life and he knew that and still knows it. Sending you lots of love.
Thank you so much , Susan. That means a lot to me.
Oh Dixie,
I am in tears.
For you and the dear Mr Waffles and me, and my Dezzy Sophia, and any of us who have been blessed with the unforgettable love of a Mr Waffles.
I dread the day I will be faced with such a decision and such a loss.
Sending you love, and gratitude for putting into words what those of us lucky enough to have a Mr Waffles feel about our adoring, z never critical, ever watchful shadows.
Thank you, Madelyn. It is a bad day, I won’t lie. But I know you’ll have the courage and love to make the call. And I cna recommend the doctor who made the house call when the time comes.
Thank you, Dixie,,
I just read your post again as if for the first time.
With tears running down my face. I don’t know how I am ever going to do this. And how I am ever going to survive without my crazy raggedy little Dezzy Sophia.
I was never a Dog Person before I became her Alpha. They “trust us”. That’s the thing. The unparalleled forgiveness regardless of our failures. I never felt I deserved this honor before. Now I will go back to your next post about your descent with you and Mr Waffles I’m my heart.
Dixie. I am so sorry for your loss. Truly. Jessica
Thank you. xoxox L’shana tovah.
Oh Dixie, I knew Dr. Waffles through Frank’s posts, and I know firsthand the joy of loving (and being loved by) a dog and the grief of losing them. Thinking of you.
You got to go get two sister puppies for Frank to walk. I have had the most wonderful bunch of years looking forward to the shenanigans of Lulubelle and Waf! They made me feel like living a little longer on some days, after all these surguries i have had and recovered from. My four frail newborn baby kittens i buried this week. tghe mama cat ran up on my porch and had the kittens shortly after. Nothin we did kept them alive. I wrapped all four into on of mom’s silk scarves and buried them under some flowers. I know that at 82 my turn will be next and god damn if I want a bunch of loonies traveling from pace to place before burying me. Just cremate mme and toss me into the ocean where maybe i can travel. the two sister puppies can be lucy and Ethel, a joke between a good friend and me. We got into more hilarious scenarios like Lu an Waf. Love you girl. Phyllis aka chatty Cathy
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I’m so sorry for your losses, Phyllis. I have a connection to the Best Friends cat rescue here in Manhattan and I happen to know there are people and cats who’d love to see you volunteer your love and life spirit. xoxo
I don’t drive or walk much any more. I send MONET to the no kill places here in Sacramento. HUGS!!!!!
Forgive my crappy typing as i am using my right hand and left thumb and still cannot play like Oscar Peterson after HIS stroke. My late son Brendan got this yahoo email for me, cheekily telling me later a mamasan is often head of a brothel
Oh Dixie, I sobbed when I heard the news from Frankie’s post. I saw you from the Zoomagogue a week ago Friday night and had no idea that’s what you meant by had a rough day. I used to see Lulu and Waffles every day at Bouchon. They were the highlight of my day and a comfort when things were not going well. I used to massage his ears whenever we had to take the escalator down. May sweet Dr. Waffles and Lulu’s memories be for a blessing. Your writing is so visceral and moving. I agree with the comment that it should be submitted to the New York Times.
Sending so much love and comfort. 💔Judith
Thank you Judith. I went to that synagogue that Shabbat for the first time, just desperate to try to get some comfort and, frankly, distraction. You couldn’t see me there in a back pew, head down, sobbing. Luckily no one could hear me over the music, so I just looked really moved. (I loved the service there, but my husband is converting to Judaism and he preferred we join a different synagogue.) Thank you fir your very kind words Judith, and l’shana tovah to you and yours.
I cried so hard reading this! I’m so sorry for your loss yet those words seem meaningless even voicing. The loss of a companion, a friend, family, a child never truly goes away but the great memories the knowledge that amongst all of us lonely humans you had that unconditional love is a blessing like no other SIP Dr Waffles and be strong my dear friend for even if you can’t see him beside you know that you are never walking alone love you lots
Nikki, your beautiful heart and spirit are a blessing.
I’m so so sorry Dixie! My heart breaks for you. Sending huge love and hugs.
Z’L Dr. Waffles. You were the most loved pet I ever knew. Thank you Dixie.
Thank you