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| Sweet Pea was born in our first traditional Alaskan Husky litter in 2002. She was an adorable puppy! |
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| Sweet Pea was always keeping a watchful eye over the kennel and her humans |
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| Filled with personality, Sweet Pea was a tad dramatic when she injured her toe! |
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| Sweet Pea, on the right in the photo, loved to be out on the trail with the family. |
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| Sweet Pea was the puppy nanny and fun police to the very end. She was always looking out for the younger and vulnerable dogs. |
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| Here, she waits patiently for Neil to finish his smoothie |
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| The devised a way to reach the very bottom of the cup! |
07/02/2014
Sweet Pea
A friend told me the day
before that Mother Superior (Lake
Superior) would be with us.
She was calm despite the blowing of the winds, on our drive up and across the
border. Deep blue, soothing, peaceful Lake Superior, on
the day.
Weeks before, Sweet Pea, our
beloved nanny dog to the kennel, living up to her name, was diagnosed with an
aggressive sarcoma. The shock, pain and sadness quickly permeated throughout me.
My poor beloved Sweet Pea.
We set out to give her more
of everything she loved in her last days,
weeks, months, we didn’t know. What she loved most was being with us,
eating peanut butter-filled Kongs, licking our bowls and plates and she
especially loved licking the smoothie cup. She had, over the years, devised the
perfect strategy for this task. Sweet Pea managed to get her tongue all the way
to the bottom of the cup by inserting the entire cup in her opened mouth and
nearly back to her throat while her long tongue licked away at the yogurt,
berry, honey and flax residue left behind. She LOVED licking the smoothie cup.
Sweet Pea never was an
extremely enthusiastic sled dog. She really disliked being harnessed and hooked
up to the line but once we took off down the trail, he face lit up and her tail
began wagging and boy did she pull! I guess she just didn’t like all of the
pressure and noise before the run but seemed to cherish her time running in the
team on the trail. Kind of like me. She decided this past winter that she would
rather not run any longer. How do I know this?
Well, when approaching her with her harness before a run, she began to
run the other way! I would say that’s a clear sign if there was one. So, instead,
she took walks with us down the same trail and along with the house dogs. Those
walks increased in frequency after she was diagnosed. At first, she would run
out to the end of the 26’ flexi leash and act as a guardian when vehicles would
meet us around the bend. At the end, only two weeks later, she was walking
slowly but surely right next to us.
She began having difficulty
getting up half way into week two and began moving more slowly. She vomited one
day and then the next, I noticed a change in her bowel movements. The sarcoma
was firmly attached to her lower rib cage and was, no doubt, making its way
through her abdominal cavity. I couldn’t stand to imagine her being eaten from
the inside. I made the appointment for her, two days away. Canada day made the Tuesday not available so we had to
settle for the Wednesday, hoping it would not be an emergency by that time. You
see, our closest vet is in Canada and an hour and a half away.
One thing I knew is that her
passing could not be an emergency. I carried her father, Zulu, into the
emergency vet several years ago and I did not want that to happen to dear Sweet
Pea. We also live so far from the vet and must cross an international border. I
didn’t want to risk being turned away for some reason out of my control, during
an emergency.
The next day she perked up! I
spent the entire day on an emotional roller coaster. Did I make the right
decision? Should I put this off another week and see? I quickly contacted a
friend to see if she might be available to take me and Sweet Pea to the vet in Canada early next week, when my husband would be away with
the vehicle. She could! I felt a weight lifted. I had a back up plan and could
cancel the appointment if needed.
The morning before, a friend
came over to visit me and Sweet Pea. She did some energy work on Sweet Pea and
it was clear to her that her time was coming to an end. I still remained open
to changing the appointment but did feel a sense of peace after her visit.
When she didn’t bother to get
up to lick the smoothie cup that night, I knew. I saw that as a clear sign. A
friend told me – best it be a week early than a day late. This struck a chord
with me and helped to validate my feelings. I made the right decision. When in
such an emotional state, words like this really do help get you through.
That morning, Sweet Pea got
some bacon and was given my yogurt bowl to lick, as usual. We walked her out
into the dog yard and past each kennel so that each of her 28 furry family
members could see her one last time. We then took a short walk, just me and
her, before I helped her jump up into the cab of the truck. She loved car rides
and she seemed happy to be taking one.
I prepared myself in advance
for crossing the border. They always ask the reason for your visit. I had not
anticipated/remembered the next question typically asked. “What are you leaving
in Canada?” Tears began to roll down my face as I barely
uttered the words “Our dog. We have to put down our dog”. The stern man at the
window said, “So you’re leaving your dog in Canada.” And stern voice turned with a hint of controlled sympathy
said “I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am,” as he handed me our passports and sent
us on our way.
We arrived early and walked
Sweet Pea around the little dirt path that circles the clinic. It’s a country
clinic surrounded by fields and livestock. She perked up and pulled ahead,
taking in all of the new smells and sights. She had been here before and you
could tell that she was enjoying herself. Not at all fearful of this place. The
last time, she made it a point to say hello to everyone she met, animal and
people alike.
We went into the vet clinic
and they quickly brought us to a room that had a nice soft blanket placed on
the floor. Sweet Pea ate a couple treats while I sat on the floor next to her,
enticing her to sit down. Neil and I were both in and out of tears, trying hard
not to let Sweet Pea see our sorrow but, of course, it couldn’t be hidden. Our
vet, a lovely young Minnesotan recently turned Canadian, came in to greet us.
Dr. Amanda, only having been a vet for a year, studied under our previous sled
dog vet west of the Twin Cities when we lived in Watertown. She is such a kind and gentle soul and I’ve felt
comfortable taking our emergencies to her and those can’t-wait-too-long
appointments. Such a relief knowing that we can get to her in an hour and a
half when our regular vet is 3 ½ hours away.
Dr. Amanda explained the
upcoming moments. Having been through this a dozen times, I knew what was to
happen but noticed that I was in a fog and appreciated the refresher. Something
like this NEVER gets easier. After loosing a dozen furry angels, one might
think it does. Actually, the pain is amplified because you relive the pain over
again for each loss.
The sedative took a little
while to take affect. Sweet Pea was peaceful and very calm but did want to
continue to stand. She finally laid down and I sat next to her, hugging her and
caressing her ears. Dr. Amanda came in and administered the overdose of
anesthesia that would end her pain. I never say “good bye” to my dogs. I always
say “See you later”. I said “See you later, Sweet Pea.” Then I sobbed. When
Sweet Pea became still, I felt a wave of relief come over me: relief for her
and deep, deep sadness for me and Neil. I had cried all of my tears and now I
felt at peace, much like she must have felt. I removed her collar and snatched
the tufts of hair that were shaved off of her leg for placement of the catheter
and put those in my pocket. I didn’t know what I would do with them but knew I
wanted them. I knew she was no longer in
her body. She was no longer there. She was now everywhere.
I wonder why humans aren’t
graced with the ability to make a compassionate decision for themselves and
loved ones when facing a prolonged painful end to their lives. I am grateful
that I could give Sweet Pea this gift.
I remained peaceful right to
the international border crossing. Wondering what feelings might come to the
surface, I stopped at the window. “Gone to more dog training?” the officer
asked in a very cheerful voice. This is how often I cross the border. They are
remembering me now. A tear dropped as I said that no, we had to have a dog put
down. Her cheery face turned to concern as she said, “I am so very sorry”. Then
she handed me our passports and said “Welcome home”.
I felt her presence in the
back seat on the way home. Once in Minnesota, Mother Superior (Lake Superior) was even more calm, even more deep blue. It was a
peaceful sight. I felt a numb kind of peaceful. I had no more tears.
I returned and found it
therapeutic to post a photo of Sweet Pea on Facebook. The comments that came in
over several hours were so supportive, encouraging and kind. This is what I
like about social media. I am grateful for those friends that shared their own
story with me or shared some kind words of support.
Why do we continue to bring these
furry creatures into our lives that leave us heartbroken and far too soon?
Because we love them and they make our lives on this planet better, more
enriched. We love each and every one of them and life just wouldn’t be the same
without them. The deep sorrow when they pass is soothed by the multitude of
joyous memories that were made with them while they were alive. This is why I
continue to have them and love them.
Sweet Pea, you were the puppy
nanny to nearly every single dog in our kennel. You were sweet, and aptly named.
You were nurturing and patience and such an excellent teacher to those young
pups and to me. You were born in our
kennel and lived a full life with us until the end. You will be deeply missed
and will never be forgotten. Your footsteps will always be embedded deeply in
my soul.
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