The House is Quiet Now
The film "Pig" with Nicolas Cage ends on a sobering image of a disheveled, bloody man staring down at an empty pig bed. Those arresting final seconds of silence are my lasting memory of the film and the experience I've dreaded living through myself. With my dog, Riley, getting "up there" in age at 15, I knew that day was coming sooner rather than later.
The lead-up was easier to handle than the aftermath. When we learned she had a mass in her lungs and the veterinarian recommended immediate hospice and euthanasia, I was quick to lock in, being a steady presence to guide some of the difficult decisions ahead. It wasn't easy, but it was actionable. Through the diagnosis to the medication diet and even the at-home euthanasia, I kept my composure. I vacillated between guilt and confidence that I was handling things "the right way." I suspect that my Buddhist upbringing has something to do with this: the acceptance of death and the end of suffering. Saying goodbye was tough, but expected and manageable.
The silence was deafening.
I work from home 5 days a week. I can deal without the physical presence of coworkers. I've learned that I can't really deal with the absence of Riley right now. Roger Ebert's final essay was called "A Leave of Presence," and those words sum it up perfectly – her leave of presence is palpable.
It's the little moments that creep up on you. The routine of coming home has changed significantly. When my wife and I would approach the door, we'd peek into our window to see the white tip of Riley's tail wag furiously in anticipation. As we entered we'd hear that familiar pitter-patter of her Pitbull paws before she'd knock us over with her big block head. She'd use her head with the ramming power of a Pachycephalosaurus to knock open the bedroom door. She was physically powerful, even until her very last minutes when she very ungracefully lunged for her dying treat.
Riley was muscular, but her stature didn't discount her personality. Her peppery-white eyebrows betrayed her old soul as they lifted and furled as if she was in deep thought, contemplating the ancillary ills of the world. These human instincts contrasted sharply with her dog-instinct to react adversely to the mention of a bath. Despite her Ian Curtis-level depressive dramatics, she had plenty of joy: walks, car rides and Greenies brought about a wide, toothy grin. Riley was clever too, knowing that I was the sucker in the relationship. She would whine as if beckoning to go outside, only to trot over to her treat box instead. Of course I relented. She would happily trot back to her bed, bone-in-tow. I've wondered if she was happy about the treat, or if it was the fact she'd duped me.
Our king sized bed turned into a twin-sized one as she nestled right up next to me nightly. Since college it's always been our bed - I suspect she wasn't too keen on a third person joining later in life. In her advanced years, her snoring could wake a sleeping village. I miss it. She spent most of her twilight hours sleeping, but even the mild suggestion of a walk would spring her into action.
I've been sleeping well lately. No more middle-of-the-night wakeup calls to go outside. I've reclaimed a lot of my bedspace. Our room has reached a reasonable sound level now that the snores have stopped. I'm not worried about the signs that Riley wasn't feeling well. There's a tinge of guilt about this improved quality of sleep.
My schedule isn't oriented around an 8am breakfast or 5pm dinner, an afternoon walk, or a weekend car ride. I've regained some flexibility in my schedule. But there's a nagging feeling that I'm forgetting to do something when those times come and go. The mental quiet is harder to reckon with than the physical one. Riley's leave of presence is felt in the silence. I am learning to live with the quiet, but the home certainly feels less full without it.