TRIGGER WARNING: Sad post about saying goodbye to our dog
Today is the day. Olieo’s last day as a dog and my last day as a dog mom.
I’m writing about this because I can’t do anything else. I can’t think about anything else and I can’t feel any way other than sad, so I might as well get it out on the page.
Olieo’s kidney disease has been getting markedly worse. For several weeks he paces nightly. He looks for us, panting constantly and unable to settle. Even with pain medication, I know he is suffering. I think because he has become incontinent but knows he isn’t supposed to pee in the house, he doesn’t want to relax.
It hasn’t been possible to tell him it is FINE to just pee on the towels and old blankets everywhere. We don’t know how to convey that there are pee-pads underneath, we are happy to clean up after him, and he’s far too old to worry about anything but his own comfort.
After several nights of sleeping in the living room to be closer to him and available when he needed us, last night we broke down and gave him one of the medications that make him unsteady and loopy but calm. Everyone got a few hours of sleep, which we need to face this impossible day. Some part of me still can’t imagine a day without Olieo, even though I know there are only 270 minutes until that reality.
In this final week, we have slowly ticked off the list of things that make his quality of life (and ours) worthwhile. The dog that always emptied his bowl, stole sandwiches from the hands of starving beach artists, and kept the kitchen floor spotless for 13 years has mostly stopped eating. He had a few bites of pancake this morning, and later we will offer him the grapes he has been desperate to try for over a decade and we always kept away from him. He’s only got a few hours to live, what the hell.
Instead of jumping up onto chaise lounges, in-and-out of his Subaru Forrester, and generally running toward whatever is the next most exciting thing, he can barely stand up and down, due to arthritis pain. He’s pretty wheezy, likely fluid buildups from the kidney disease, or pneumonia, or some other secondary issue.
Olieo didn’t start out as a cuddly dog, but there was a long stretch in the middle of his life when he tried to turn me into a dog person by being as physically close as he could to me. The result was uncounted but appreciated hours of loving companionship and only a few outbreaks of seconday-contact poison oak.
Blue Heelers–Australian cattle dogs–are a working breed more attuned to doing what is asked of them than being rewarded with affection. I asked a lot of him over his life. I asked him to be my workout partner. I asked him to be my emotional support animal while my Dad died, and then my Mom. My husband, Mark, and I both asked him to be our travel adventure buddy.
Olieo didn’t ask for much in return. He ate plain old kibble and loved it as much as expensive treats. He scarfed down raw carrots, green beans, and most fruit. The weirdest thing he enjoyed was chomping on crispy kale stems. (Of course, he never turned down a french fry when we got fast food on long road trips either.)
He was good-natured about backpacks, harnesses, handkerchiefs, party hats. And, if I have one huge regret, it is not spending more time and energy to make costumes and dress him up. But I’m not a dog person like he wasn’t a people person. Although he would have tolerated it, he wouldn’t have enjoyed it.
He spent his 13-ish years with us, and three years before that with my dad and brother working his way into everyone’s hearts.
Here’s the memory I wrote on Olieo’s behalf for my dad Bob’s memorial:
Yvette, for Olieo the Dog
Olieo’s Memory
No one realized it, but I was one of Bob’s secret weapons.
See, Bob loved talking to people, but he was sad a lot of the time. He didn’t like to go out alone. I get that. If you’re alone, who throws the sticks?
That’s where I came in. With my overwhelming enthusiasm, I made Bob get up in the morning. I made him feed me, I made him get on the bicycle. I made him meet people.
I remember how meeting new people was hard for Bob. I don’t know why all you humans refuse to do it the easy way and just sniff butts, but you don’t.
Instead, I am so adorable, such a handsome fellow, that every time Bob would take me out, people would stop and say, “THAT is a good lookin’ dog! What kind of dog is that?” And like magic, Bob had people to talk to.
Bob wasn’t always the best owner. I remember that when I was a puppy, sometimes he yelled at me. When he got sick, he couldn’t take care of me anymore. But I remember that he loved me, and pet me, and fed me. In fact, he fed me some pretty tasty stuff. Mmmmm, yeah. I remember that!
So what is my favorite memory of Bob? I won’t ever forget running through the Scottsdale greenbelt, close by the left side of his bike. Running flat out in the early morning breeze, my tongue lolling from the side of my mouth. Primed and ready for Bob to shout “Left!” or “My Way!” at a turn in pavement.
Because by taking care of me, and using me as his secret, people-meeting weapon, Bob had figured out the way, for him, that was right.
We adopted Olieo when Bob couldn’t manage a young dog athlete, but I was adamant that a dog would never be allowed upstairs into the bedroom.
For years he slept by my bedside.
I was equally resolute that I would never let a dog on a piece of furniture or in a bed with me. That obviously didn’t last either. Olieo was loving and insistent that he needed to be RIGHT THERE with me to do his job properly.
And right up until the end, when his breath smelled terrible from the kidney disease, reflux, and all the problems that come with a dog of a certain vintage, he kept up his bargain of allowing twice-weekly baths in order to control the dog smell and fur shedding that make me not a dog person.
Blue heelers are a unique and beloved breed and after living with this one for many years, I absolutely understand why.
Strangers would regularly come right up to us to chat about our “good-lookin’” dog. I remember one older man, walking with a cane, who looked wistfully at young Olieo bouncing impatiently, waiting for his favorite floaty toy to be thrown.
“You’ll never lose that dog,” the man said.
I had no idea at the time that he referred to the breed’s tendency to pick one human (maybe two, sorry, Mark) and make it their life’s work to just be with that person. I didn’t realize at the time that I would never lose Olieo because he would never voluntarily let me out of his sight.
He’s not even 2 feet away from me right now, even though there are surely more comfortable places to rest old bones than on the saltillo tile beneath the dining room table. Nope, we were together for 13-ish years, and he never lost me once.
I am the one who has to lose him. In a few hours I have to walk into the vet’s office with a smart dog who always kept me on my toes and walk out with nothing but loss.
What do you think?