Goodbye, old girl

I don't really have words to write this, so I guess I'll just forge ahead. Last week, I had Laika put to sleep. After many months of trying to judge how bad her pain was, I decided that discomfort now outweighed enjoyment of life. Her hip displasia had made her hind end so weak that her front legs were taking most of her weight, and beginning to look like strange, contorted stilts. She had other problems aplenty, but the hips were the worst. You wouldn't know it from the picture above, taken a few years ago... I think just a moment later, she most likely unfurled and vaulted over the arm of the chair in hot pursuit of whatever Matt was tossing in the frying pan. Hips were still in concert with spirit, back then.

I suppose I am fortunate: I have never mourned any loss of life so much. I have never made a decision so difficult. This week I have felt nauseous, overwhelmed, and lost, most of the time. The one who was beside me almost always - at desk, in garden, on hikes - for twelve years... is missing, along with part of my body and identity, it seems. The dark weight of remembering the moment in the vet's office when her soul slipped out and her head went slack... it is heavy.

But, enough about me. Let's talk about her. I met Laika at the pound. The dog catcher had brought her in. She was in the cage next to a litter of patchy brown puppies, one of which was to be mine as soon as it was old enough to be released. I visited it every day, until the day when there was Laika. She was pretty and strong and... empathic. We went out into the doggy exercise yard, and Laika demonstrated her disdain for stupid squeaky toys (not real chipmunks, duh!), and we hugged, and I cried. Rearrangements were made, and a couple days later, when no one claimed this particular flea-ridden, stumpy tailed mutt, she and I went home together.

Laika loved woods and fields. She had long legs and was good at running and jumping. She could soar, actually. She enjoyed pouncing on critters, and then crunching them. She used to collect household items and store them in her Super Snuggy (a slipper, a sweatshirt, a potted cyclamen). She stole entire sticks of butter, still in their wrappers, off the counter, leaving no evidence except... mysterious lack of entire butter stick? She had a cream-colored, crocheted family heirloom for a Blankie, and it was her Favorite. And teal Chair, her other favorite. She loved to cuddle. She loved the snow, good for chomping in the air as it fell, and rolling in when it was deep. She analyzed data through intricate ear articulation and minute olfactory intake.

She did a thing that my mom named Sniffing the Wild Air, which was eyes closed, nose tipped up, nostrils flaring in little puffs. So, instead of my theme of the past week, which has been Fucking Fuck It, Let's Get Drunk, I will strive for this, in Laika's memory: live life for the sake of sniffing the wild air; do not abide by the rest.