After Andy

DISCLAIMER: This post will be sad. I'm sad as I write it, and by the end, you'll probably be sad as well. (Unless you're, like, cold and heartless or whatever.) So if you don't want to be sad, I suggest reading through the archives and finding a LOL-worthy alternative (how about this?) - and I promise, I'll be back to my normal dorky self real soon. Thanks for understanding, y'all.

*And by the way - in order to really understand this post, you'll need to read this one first.


I write for a living, but I'm having so much trouble finding words right now. How can I explain the depths of my love for the soul I bid a tearful goodbye to yesterday? Sure, he was a dog. Just a dog, some would argue. But anyone who has ever loved a four-legged friend so much will understand that there is no such thing as "just" a dog.

Though the classified ad in the paper had screamed, "FREE BLACK LAB PUPPIES," we knew he wasn't a full-blooded Lab when we saw his curly tail ... but he was adorable - tiny, sweet, and shy - and we loved him from the first time we laid eyes on him. We called him Andy because I swear he told me that was his name. At least that's what popped into my head and wouldn't leave, so even though it rhymed with Curtis's ex-girlfriend's name, that's who he became. Our Andy.

Andy was our first baby. He was part of the logical progression of family-building, our practice run for parenthood. Through the potty training, the chewed-up shoes, the adorably aggravating puppy stages, Curtis and I learned how to take care of another needy little being. Together.

We couldn't have predicted that a harrowing five-year battle with infertility would threaten our chances of ever having a "real" baby. Between seemingly-endless cycles of fertility drugs and invasive, dignity-stripping procedures, our hopes of having children dwindled. I clung to my Andy, the closest thing I ever had - the closest thing I ever thought I would have. He was my consolation, my only outlet for the maternal instinct that swelled within me. I shed many bitter tears into his shiny black fur, his warm weight cuddled close, temporarily easing an ache that wouldn't go away. Into him I poured my grief, my frustration, my feelings of inadequacy. In return he gave me constant, unconditional love.

Even after we finally had our boys, Andy remained as close to our hearts as ever. Which is why, when he bit Colin's arm several years ago in response to a startle, we chose to give him another chance. We thought it was an isolated incident. And for a long time, we all lived a peaceful coexistence - until two weeks ago, when our two-year-old fell on a sleeping Andy and was bitten in the face. It took forty stitches to close his wounds, and was a heartbreaking jolt into the reality that Andy was a threat to our children. Whether the bite was in response to an accident or not, he could have done far more serious damage. And that left us with an agonizing decision to make.

I immediately took to my blog and Facebook to ask for help - and my wonderful readers, friends, and family members offered up so much advice and encouragement. It wasn't all positive - I got several of the standard "if it had been my dog, he would have been killed instantly" type responses, and was even questioned as to whether I had the "mommy instinct" that led me to protect my children - but even those comments, as hard as they were to read, were made with my family's best interests at heart.

I began exhaustively researching our options. I called area Lab and elderly dog rescues and no-kill shelters, all of whom gave me sympathetic explanations that they just couldn't take a dog who has bitten a child. Through tears I posted a long ad on Craigslist, begging for a child-free home for Andy. The only result was a cluster of e-mails echoing what the Animal Control people had already told me - that if Andy were to ever bite anyone else, we would still be liable. One lady said she had re-homed a rescue dog who ended up biting someone, and she lost everything because of the resulting lawsuit.

For two weeks we hoped against hope. Weighed all the terrible options over and over again. Felt the choking, breathtaking sorrow as we considered - for the first time in ten years - life without Andy. And finally, came to a conclusion.

Yesterday morning, Andy had bacon and eggs and a big drink of cold water for breakfast. Curtis and I, just the two of us, took him out for a drive in Amish country. On the first 50-degree day of the year, Andy rode with his head out the Jeep window, just the way he loved to: ears flapping in the wind, soaking up the beautiful sunshine.


He got to run around without his leash, splashing gleefully through the early-spring thaw. He chewed on a beef-basted rawhide bone. He took a nap with Curtis. And in the afternoon, he was taken to the first vet he ever saw, the "pediatrician" of his puppyhood. Just before four o'clock, sedated and in the comfort of Curtis's arms, he was calmly and humanely put to sleep.

We buried him in one of his favorite locations: my grandparents' yard. He had spent many hours running freely through their orchard, weaving through the tall grasses in their field; it was only fitting that it be his final resting place. We wrapped him in a blanket and placed him gently in a hole that Curtis and his brother had dug by hand that morning, right beside the barn. We prayed and we cried. With heavy hearts we covered Andy's body with dirt, giving him up to the earth. We had driven four hours from home to end his life and rest his spirit in the best way we could think of - and afterward, we drove home again, virtually silent in our sorrow.

This is the first morning I've woken up to an empty spot on the floor beside my bed, but he seems to be everywhere. The hairs he's shed. The dent in the couch pillow where he always laid. His food and water bowls downstairs. Every movement, every shadow, looks like him to me. But it isn't. Andy is gone. And, like his footprints that still dot the remaining snow in our backyard, he will slowly fade from our lives.

It isn't what I wanted. It's what I feared most. And it is, and has been, agonizingly painful. I know we made the right choice for everyone, but the right choice is sometimes the hardest.

Cameron escaped serious harm. His stitches have been out for more than a week now, and his healing has been remarkable. He'll have no lasting effects, and the plastic surgeon says that there'll come a time when we won't even be able to see the scars any more. Can I say the same for my own scars, the ones developing over the still-fresh fault line that has opened up in my heart? At this point, it feels like the pain will never go away. Andy's absence is as big as his presence was.

Andy, Mommy loves you. I miss you. Thank you for being my baby. Thank you for ten wonderful years of companionship. Thank you for being more than just a dog.

Comments

  1. I remember when you brought Andy to the house for the first time. He went by Barney's pin to sniff around and get to know Barney when Andy wasn't looking Barney lifted his leg toward Andy's head. He always did like to run in the yard. He was a good dog and it is hard when you have a dog that long they do become part of the family. The people who say that it is just a dog must not have a heart because dogs are living, breathing creatures just like any human.

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  2. We had a very similar situation happen to us once, it was a heavy loss and took a lot of wine and chocolate to get past the inital pain. We got through it eventually and you'll be glad to know the kids are none worse for it. We just recently adopted a sweet declawed cat and the kids love her, and I love that she can hide behind the couch if the kids get too rough! Sorry for your loss, Bren

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  3. "But anyone who has ever loved a four-legged friend so much will understand that there is no such thing as "just" a dog." -Indeed.

    "At this point, it feels like the pain will never go away." - I don't know if it goes away. It hasn't for me yet re: our two fur babies. But it has lessened. Hang in there. {{HUGS}} I'm sorry it ended how you hoped so badly it wouldn't. It's hard. It's hard to make the right choice when the right choice hurts so much. And knowing it was right doesn't make the hurt go away. But time will help, at least a little bit.

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  4. I remember the first time I met Andy. You came in the front door and said, "Mom, meet Andy," and put this little black ball of fur down in my living room. He looked more like a tiny bear cub than a puppy, and he ran right over for me to play with him. From that moment, he claimed his spot in our family....and in my heart. I, too, thought of him as your first "child." I watched with pride as you and Curtis "parented" together, developing the patience and decision-making that it would someday take to raise a family. I never dreamed that decision-making would come to this day, but I'm so proud of you two for standing together in what had to be done. Just know that you gave Andy a wonderful life, and that he had the best parents ever. I love you!

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  5. I'm so so sorry....I know not much people say can help in a situation like this, but my heart breaks for you... *hugs*

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  6. Okay you just made a "non dog lover" (as you put it Thursday night) bawl her eyes out when I read this! I know it was probably one of the most hardest things you (and Curtis) ever had to do & I'm sorry you had to go through it. You two were the best parents to Andy & he had a great life with you all!! To me this makes you an even stronger mother b/c I know how much you loved Andy....wow your 3 boys are truly lucky & blessed to call you mommy!! Love you girl!!!

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  7. this was a beautiful tribute, and I am indeed sad reading it. For you, for your family, for Andy. It is wonderful that you were able to give him such a fine last day - I had to put down my "andy" (who was a cat named Iris) last year and I will always regret not doing more to give her a wonderful last day. everytime I open a can of tuna now for the rest of my life I think of how I should have fed her some that last day. But I tattooed her name on my wrist, right where I can see it and think of her, and remember my love for her everyday. And yes, she was "just a cat," but she was precious to me. Sorry to make this about me. my heart has just broken for you and it brings up memories.

    Andy will always be with you.
    Hugs and kisses and tissues for your tears,
    Kate

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  8. You know, there has only been one other topic/blog subject that has made me tear up...and this would be my second. I'm so sorry that all of this has had to happen and that you had to lose one of your babies for the sake of protecting your other babies.

    Now's a weird time I guess, but I have posted an award for you on my blog...come and check it out. Maybe the first part of the blog post will give you a laugh.

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  9. Oh my God, Rita, I'm so sorry (as I sniffle through my tears while I write this). I hope the pain fades soon and the good memories never do. Thinking of you and your family! *LOVE*

    (And now I have to go figure out why your recent posts aren't showing up in my Dashboard reader?? I thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth and I was getting worried... and now I have some catching up to do!)

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  10. They really are a part of the family. I am so terribly sorry!

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  11. I am so sorry for your pain. We had to put our dog down too once due to his illness and it was the most horrific sad thing ever. I will keep you in my prayers and send love your way. I hope you feel better with time. God Bless.

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  12. oh honey...seriously my heart just aches for you and your family...i can see that this was a heartbreaking decision for you guys...but what a wonderful way to spend his last day...and you had to do what you had to do as a mother...big hugs to you...you're in our prayers...

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  13. Rest well, Andy. You were so very loved and gave that same love in return. Those wonderful memories are the ones that will last.

    I'm sorry for the loss of this wonderful family member, Rita.

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  14. What a painful decision to make - I remember holding our first baby in my arms, 8 months pregnant and crying hysterically, as she was administered the shot. It seems like you gave him a loving and doting home, as well as a proper farewell filled with his favorite things. I admire your integrity for giving the shelters full-disclosure of his biting incidents - you could have just dropped him off anonymously to save yourself the pain of euthanizing him. You made an incredibly unselfish decision.

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  15. I can't imagine having to make this decision, nor having to carry it out. My heart breaks for you and your family. God bless...

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  16. Everything in me told me not to read this post, but I had to because that pup of yours deserves for the world to know how wonderful he was and not just remember why he had to leave.

    Also, while through all of this, it is nearly impossible to see or feel any good, I truly believe you have provided a gift to many, that they will never know, perhaps myself included. We all love our fur babies, and we trust them every single day forgetting that they are animals, and that, in any given situation, they might react in that way. With that knowledge, I am forever now on guard with our dogs, as is Morgan with hers, with Drake. This horrible tragedy has served to remind us all, and probably saved someone from the very pain you are going through now.

    hugs and love to you all.

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  17. I am crying as well after reading that. I am so glad that you chose to let Andy go gently and humanely as opposed to giving him up to an animal control shelter. I can see from what you wrote that this was not a decision made lightly and that your heart is hurting. I know that time will ease the pain you are feeling, but I doubt it will ever completely go away. There is nothing like having to say good-bye to your first dog, your first baby, the dog that helped you through all the years of infertility. Rest in peace, Andy.

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  18. Oh my word. You did the right thing. But my heart is still broken for you. (((HUGS)))

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  19. Tears are streaming down my cheeks ... I am so very sorry you had to go through this. Andy knows he was loved. I pray for your family's healing.

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  20. Rita,
    My heart goes out to you. I am not really an animal person but I do understand that love of a mother being one myself. I am truly sorry that you had to go through this.

    Andy was a great dog and I am so glad that you had each other.

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  21. i am sorry about your dog. Pets are members of the family, they really are. But, you did the right thing, even if that was a painful decision. Hopefully, you have lots of good picutres and videos and good memories.

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  22. I am really sorry that your dog is no more. I understand the emotions coz I have a dog myself at home and I love him :)

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  23. That was the best and bravest decision ever. Reminded me when Alpha Hubby had to have his late wife's chow put to sleep because he just wouldn't accept a "new" family (bit my son & snapped at the rest of us including AH). I think, 16 years later, it still hurts in his heart a little. Your posting was beautiful - a wonderful tribute to an amazing famliy member.

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  24. Oh Rita. I am so very sorry. I wish, wish, wish there could have been another way. But given everything, I think you did the right thing for your family. Love to you, Curtis, the boys and sweet Andy.

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  25. I am so sorry! Tears are falling as I'm reading this... Andy sounds very much like my lab, my first baby, who helped me through the loss of our first human baby. He was such a comfort through that time, and I know just how it feels to pour all your hurt and tears into his fur. I can't imagine having to make the decision you were forced to make. So unbelievably hard, but I think it was the right one. ((Big hugs))

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  26. Aww, tears are running down my face as I write this comment. I feel so bad for you! I experienced similar pain when I had to have three of my dad's cats put to sleep and know what a hard decision it is. I feel bad for Andy too--he seems like such a nice dog but it was good you had a nice time with him on his last day and you really had no choice but to put your boys first. I sure hope my dog never bites anyone.

    Congrats on your SITS day!

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  27. I was put in a similar situation. Only as my baby got older she became over protective of me. We had to put her down after she bit my friends son when he stumbled into me. The pain fades but never completely goes away. It is never an easy decision to make. I'm sorry you had to make it. Thank goodness your son is healthy, happy, and not scared of dogs now!

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