I learned so much about myself from my dog and now she’s gone. December 19th, three days short of her fifteenth birthday, the same day my husband turned fifty-one, we put Ruby to sleep. We were not prepared to lose her but when she collapsed and lost control of her bowels, we would not let her suffer. We spent the entire day with her, knowing it was the last time we would look into her eyes, touch her soft fur, and feel her love. As I watched her throughout the day, I knew she was done. Her heart didn’t stop beating right away and we doubted the decision for a moment. Was she trying to tell us something? No, our girl just had a big heart. Letting her go was excruciatingly painful. My last few minutes with her are unforgettable and they wash over me as I’m writing now. As hard as it was to witness her leaving us, I knew she knew how much we loved her.
December 20th: I stay home from work and honestly can’t remember what I did all day, other than come up with a plan for our future: Andy and I would raise a guide dog, which would fail the ultimate test and be returned to us. The emptiness the day after Ruby left our life was offset briefly by a delicate white orchid plant from Ruby’s vet Dr. Chapman.
December 21st: I go into the office and everyone is thoughtful and very careful when they talk about Ruby. Everyone thinks I’m going to break but I am comforted by my plan. I tell them I’m going to raise a guide dog so that it will fail its mission. They humor my delusion. I don’t realize that I’m just trying to control what I can’t. Even with a plan, I am devastated. I don’t have to rush home to feed and walk Ruby so I walk from Times Square through Central Park, until I find myself inside a pet store on Lexington Avenue. A woman holds a tiny puppy and laughs when it licks her face. I see a Lab in a cage. No need for concern. I can’t imagine replacing Ruby. I continue home and walk in our apartment knowing she won’t be fast asleep on her pillows piled up at the foot of our bed. I am drawn to her portrait and give her a little kiss. It’s crazy but I don’t really care.
December 25th: Christmas Eve, we participate in the Monday night candle lighting ceremony on Rainbow Bridge, remembering Ruby, her best friend Lucy and all the homeless animals needing families to love them. It’s a wonderful place for support when your guts are hanging out and your heart feels like it’s been crushed in a car crash.
December 26th: Day after Christmas, we pass a Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant and decide to honor her memory by eating lunch there for the first time. On the menu is an unexpected delight, an expensive white wine called Conundrum that we love. It’s a sign.
When Andy and I get home, we gather all her photos and put them in the photo album we bought before Christmas. We scrutinize the images, remembering the Christmas Eve we were snowed in with our friends and their two Collies and come across a photo of Ruby from the summer and feel grateful the sailboat owner let her cruise with us up the Hudson River.
December 27th: It finally stops raining and Andy and I drive to a nature park called Poet’s Walk, Ruby’s favorite place in the world, where she sniffed and strolled every weekend for the last six years of her life. We remember how hard it became for her to walk up the last big hill. It feels good to be outdoors but it isn’t the same without her. We stop at the top of the hill, declare it “Ruby’s Black Diamond” and pretend to wait for her. I think about the agreement we made in August to merge Ruby’s ashes with her best friend Lucy’s, who died of cancer, after almost a year of chemo. After spending every day together for the last ten years, Lucy was gone and Ruby was alone for most of the day. We knew she wouldn’t last very long.
