Post-mortem
I told myself I'd start writing when I stopped crying, but I realised that I would never start writing then.
I woke up on Saturday morning to Rocky's groans. He was lying beside me on my bed, soaked in a puddle of pus (from the ulcers in his throat) and water; he had thrown up, but he couldn't lift up his head, much less prop himself up to walk away from the puddle.
The rest of the day is a blur now -- he was weak and miserable, that much I remember. He tried to get up countless times, but his limbs were cold and I suspect he'd lost control of them. We helped him up once or twice, and he managed to stand successfully, but the moment he tried to take a step forward, he'd collapse into a heap.
He took modest laps of water, but refused to touch the milk; he'd never refused milk before. We desperately needed him to get something in so that we could feed him his heart medicine and pain-killers. We managed to get some milk down eventually, and I rushed to grind up his meds to mix with some liquids.
With his meds in one hand, and a towel in the other, I went back into the room, where I saw him attempting yet again to stand up. I put the meds and towel down and went to help him up. He stood up, and without the strength to lift up his hind leg like he usually did, he let out a huge gush of pee; I don't know how long he'd held it in. Then he stumbled and fell into the puddle. I helped him up again, and he immediately threw up, and proceeded to choke for a good five minutes. All the while, I held him, crying, talking, running my hand up and down his spine.
The vet'd told us that she suspected the tumour had already spread to his brain, which would explain the fits. When it got too bad, we'd have to make the call, she said.
When we left the vet's the day before, I asked my sister how we would ever make the decision to put Rocky to sleep. "How bad does it have to be for us to make that call?" I asked through the tears.
"We'll know," she said. "We'll know."
And as the choking stopped, and he closed his eyes in exhaustion... I knew: We could hold on to him no longer, even if we wanted to keep him around forever. It just wouldn't be fair to him.
***
We called the sister and the dad, who were both out. While waiting for them, my mom, brother, and I cleaned up the mess. Rocky laid motionless in the corridor, his breathing so slow now. My mom found a rattan basket; just the size for him. We swaddled his shivering body in white towels and laid him in the basket. We talked to him -- just kept talking and crying -- until the rest of the family came home.
***
"Are you ready?" the vet asked gently.
No.
My dad choked out a last prayer, and as we all gathered round, taking turns to kiss him and bid him goodbye, Rocky's eyes welled up with tears. "Thank you for serving us so faithfully," my dad said in a hushed voice. "It's time to return to your Creator."
***
"Is it going to be painful?" I asked the vet.
"Just when the needle goes in," she assured us.
It happened so quickly. And as the vile blue liquid disappeared from the syringe, quiet sobs turned into howls of disbelief. The vet gently laid her stethoscope on his chest. "He's gone," she said quietly, and I saw the tears fall from her eyes. "I'll leave you guys in here for a while," she said, as she retreated from the room.
***
His body was still warm as we drove from the clinic to the crematorium. As he sat on my lap, I kept stroking the length of his body. He seemed so much asleep; I had to bite down the urge to ask him to wake up. During the half-hour journey, there were so many times where I wanted to ask my mom to slow down, Don't drive so fast, Rocky's afraid of car rides.
***
Rocky was cremated on Monday at around 9:30 AM.
***
There have been plenty of tears in the family, as you can expect. Everyone thought they'd handle the grief on their own, but every night after dinner, since Saturday, we've sat around just reminiscing about Rocky -- laughing and crying, crying and laughing. It's something we all need, and I suspect that we'll keep doing this for a while. At least, until we stop crying ourselves to sleep.
There are so many stories I wish I could tell you -- and as well I might in time to come -- but I also know that if you've never met him, you'll never understand when I talk about how it feels to have him bury his face in the crook of your arm, or plant a clumsy kiss on your face, or bound across the living room each time you come home.
***
***
"I wonder if we'll ever be able to love another dog," my brother said.
My sister sighed. "We will -- just never the same way we love Rocky. No other dog will ever grow up with us," she paused, and quietened. "He was our first love."
Not now, not yet. Not so soon.
I don't know if we ever will find a dog to love again. Maybe some dog will find us instead, just as Rocky did. He stumbled into my life so unexpectedly; like every other good thing I've been given, he proved a tremendous blessing that I didn't deserve.
***
If we could sum up Rocky in one word, it would be "personality." (The irony, I know.)
Rocky had a million different expressions for every occasion.
Many years ago, I came home from school to my grandma (she was still around then) excitedly telling me: "Rocky aye hiao tia Hokkien wei!" ("Rocky can understand Hokkien!")
Yes, Rocky stayed when she asked him to, even when the gate had been accidentally (and very temptingly) left open. You see, Rocky was never timid or submissive like most other dogs are to their humans; but Rocky listened. He looked back and forth at my grandma and at the open gate, and he trotted merrily back to the sofa where she was seated, cocked his head to one side, as if to ask, "Right. What do you suggest we do for fun then?"
***
The toughest thing about not having him around is that he always was. When he first came into the family, we restricted him to the first floor. After a week, the rules changed and we allowed him into our rooms. Within a month, he was sleeping in our beds. Yeah, bad us.
I've woken up every single day in the past week, with my heart physically aching upon realising anew that my dog is no longer around. Every corner we turn, we can imagine him just being there. He was everywhere. Sometimes it feels like he still is.
***
Mom and I took a walk along his usual route, and we cried the entire way. We pointed out all his little quirks, like how he always insisted on walking on the edge of the big drain (he fell in once), how he'd always pee on "that cactus plant," and how he'd always spend a longer time sniffing "this spot of grass."
***
I miss him so much.
***
We wrote a thank you card to the folks over at Vet Practice. We've consulted with a number of vets in our time, but they have been the best by far. They care.
I'd also like to thank everyone for keeping us in your thoughts and prayers, for the touching tributes, for the phone calls and SMS-es, and for the kind e-mails -- I'm completely overwhelmed by the number of people who've written to me; I am immensely thankful and touched that you did, and for letting me know that Rocky's stories have helped put a smile on your face, a spark in your life, or a tear in your eye -- that's just... amazing to know. Thank you for just managing a kind word; I know its never easy to say something in a time like this. Thank you all.
I have replied to each one, as far as I know. But on hindsight, I think I might've mistakenly talked about Rocky in the present tense, even after he'd passed on. My apologies; it's something that I'm going to have to get used to.
***
I hope to re-enable comments by my next post, and I ask that you help me through this. Leave something funny, something witty, something poignant, even something meaningless; but if you have anything Rocky-related, please leave me a private note instead.
It's not that I'm trying to forget, or even that I'm trying to move on; it's that there is a time and place for everything.
Please, and thank you.
***
I woke up on Saturday morning to Rocky's groans. He was lying beside me on my bed, soaked in a puddle of pus (from the ulcers in his throat) and water; he had thrown up, but he couldn't lift up his head, much less prop himself up to walk away from the puddle.
The rest of the day is a blur now -- he was weak and miserable, that much I remember. He tried to get up countless times, but his limbs were cold and I suspect he'd lost control of them. We helped him up once or twice, and he managed to stand successfully, but the moment he tried to take a step forward, he'd collapse into a heap.
He took modest laps of water, but refused to touch the milk; he'd never refused milk before. We desperately needed him to get something in so that we could feed him his heart medicine and pain-killers. We managed to get some milk down eventually, and I rushed to grind up his meds to mix with some liquids.
With his meds in one hand, and a towel in the other, I went back into the room, where I saw him attempting yet again to stand up. I put the meds and towel down and went to help him up. He stood up, and without the strength to lift up his hind leg like he usually did, he let out a huge gush of pee; I don't know how long he'd held it in. Then he stumbled and fell into the puddle. I helped him up again, and he immediately threw up, and proceeded to choke for a good five minutes. All the while, I held him, crying, talking, running my hand up and down his spine.
The vet'd told us that she suspected the tumour had already spread to his brain, which would explain the fits. When it got too bad, we'd have to make the call, she said.
When we left the vet's the day before, I asked my sister how we would ever make the decision to put Rocky to sleep. "How bad does it have to be for us to make that call?" I asked through the tears.
"We'll know," she said. "We'll know."
And as the choking stopped, and he closed his eyes in exhaustion... I knew: We could hold on to him no longer, even if we wanted to keep him around forever. It just wouldn't be fair to him.
***
We called the sister and the dad, who were both out. While waiting for them, my mom, brother, and I cleaned up the mess. Rocky laid motionless in the corridor, his breathing so slow now. My mom found a rattan basket; just the size for him. We swaddled his shivering body in white towels and laid him in the basket. We talked to him -- just kept talking and crying -- until the rest of the family came home.
***
"Are you ready?" the vet asked gently.
No.
My dad choked out a last prayer, and as we all gathered round, taking turns to kiss him and bid him goodbye, Rocky's eyes welled up with tears. "Thank you for serving us so faithfully," my dad said in a hushed voice. "It's time to return to your Creator."
***
"Is it going to be painful?" I asked the vet.
"Just when the needle goes in," she assured us.
It happened so quickly. And as the vile blue liquid disappeared from the syringe, quiet sobs turned into howls of disbelief. The vet gently laid her stethoscope on his chest. "He's gone," she said quietly, and I saw the tears fall from her eyes. "I'll leave you guys in here for a while," she said, as she retreated from the room.
***
His body was still warm as we drove from the clinic to the crematorium. As he sat on my lap, I kept stroking the length of his body. He seemed so much asleep; I had to bite down the urge to ask him to wake up. During the half-hour journey, there were so many times where I wanted to ask my mom to slow down, Don't drive so fast, Rocky's afraid of car rides.
***
Rocky was cremated on Monday at around 9:30 AM.
***
There have been plenty of tears in the family, as you can expect. Everyone thought they'd handle the grief on their own, but every night after dinner, since Saturday, we've sat around just reminiscing about Rocky -- laughing and crying, crying and laughing. It's something we all need, and I suspect that we'll keep doing this for a while. At least, until we stop crying ourselves to sleep.
There are so many stories I wish I could tell you -- and as well I might in time to come -- but I also know that if you've never met him, you'll never understand when I talk about how it feels to have him bury his face in the crook of your arm, or plant a clumsy kiss on your face, or bound across the living room each time you come home.
***
"I ask my Master and Mistress to remember me always, but not to grieve for me too long. In my life I have tried to be a comfort in time of sorrow, and a reason for added joy in their happiness. It is painful for me to think that even in death I should cause them pain. It is time I said good-bye, too sick a burden on myself and on those who love me. It will be a sorrow to leave them, but not a sorrow to die.
"One last request I earnestly make. I have heard my Mistress say, 'When Blemie dies we must never have another dog. I love him so much I could never love another one.' Now I would ask her, for love of me, to have another. It would be a poor tribute to my memory never to have a dog again."
-- "Famous Last Will and Testament" by Eugene O'Neill
***
"I wonder if we'll ever be able to love another dog," my brother said.
My sister sighed. "We will -- just never the same way we love Rocky. No other dog will ever grow up with us," she paused, and quietened. "He was our first love."
Not now, not yet. Not so soon.
I don't know if we ever will find a dog to love again. Maybe some dog will find us instead, just as Rocky did. He stumbled into my life so unexpectedly; like every other good thing I've been given, he proved a tremendous blessing that I didn't deserve.
***
If we could sum up Rocky in one word, it would be "personality." (The irony, I know.)
Rocky had a million different expressions for every occasion.
Many years ago, I came home from school to my grandma (she was still around then) excitedly telling me: "Rocky aye hiao tia Hokkien wei!" ("Rocky can understand Hokkien!")
Yes, Rocky stayed when she asked him to, even when the gate had been accidentally (and very temptingly) left open. You see, Rocky was never timid or submissive like most other dogs are to their humans; but Rocky listened. He looked back and forth at my grandma and at the open gate, and he trotted merrily back to the sofa where she was seated, cocked his head to one side, as if to ask, "Right. What do you suggest we do for fun then?"
***
The toughest thing about not having him around is that he always was. When he first came into the family, we restricted him to the first floor. After a week, the rules changed and we allowed him into our rooms. Within a month, he was sleeping in our beds. Yeah, bad us.
I've woken up every single day in the past week, with my heart physically aching upon realising anew that my dog is no longer around. Every corner we turn, we can imagine him just being there. He was everywhere. Sometimes it feels like he still is.
***
Mom and I took a walk along his usual route, and we cried the entire way. We pointed out all his little quirks, like how he always insisted on walking on the edge of the big drain (he fell in once), how he'd always pee on "that cactus plant," and how he'd always spend a longer time sniffing "this spot of grass."
***
I miss him so much.
***
We wrote a thank you card to the folks over at Vet Practice. We've consulted with a number of vets in our time, but they have been the best by far. They care.
I'd also like to thank everyone for keeping us in your thoughts and prayers, for the touching tributes, for the phone calls and SMS-es, and for the kind e-mails -- I'm completely overwhelmed by the number of people who've written to me; I am immensely thankful and touched that you did, and for letting me know that Rocky's stories have helped put a smile on your face, a spark in your life, or a tear in your eye -- that's just... amazing to know. Thank you for just managing a kind word; I know its never easy to say something in a time like this. Thank you all.
I have replied to each one, as far as I know. But on hindsight, I think I might've mistakenly talked about Rocky in the present tense, even after he'd passed on. My apologies; it's something that I'm going to have to get used to.
***
I hope to re-enable comments by my next post, and I ask that you help me through this. Leave something funny, something witty, something poignant, even something meaningless; but if you have anything Rocky-related, please leave me a private note instead.
It's not that I'm trying to forget, or even that I'm trying to move on; it's that there is a time and place for everything.
Please, and thank you.
***
"Better is one day in Your courts than a thousand elsewhere..."
-- Psalm 84:10 (NIV)
posted by Laughingcow at 5:28 pm
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