Early in the morning
on Thursday, May 24 I had to get my dog Shiloh to the vet to be put to sleep.
She just went downhill so fast that all I could do was to take care of her
needs and keep her comfortable because I knew the final trip to the vet was
inevitable. If you’ve had a pet that got so sick like she did, you know the
feeling. You think some miracle might happen until you realize that it won’t
and oh the feeling of going through the finality of it all is heartbreaking. And
yet, it is the last humane act that a person can do for a loving and dying pet.
I already had a huge
dog and a cat, when I spied Shiloh at the school where I taught; was getting
ready to pull into my parking place, when I saw the teacher’s aide outside
holding a tiny black dog. “Don’t look” I told myself but I did and that is all
it took. As I got out of my car, all I could think was to get her to my house
but there was no way I that would happen—I had a class of students ready to
come in my room soon. And so, I waved down my up the street neighbor who was in
traffic to let out her son. “Can you take the dog home with you?” And she did.
There was this look
in the dog’s eyes that just cried out to me. And oh I had seen that look before
in my pets I would have whether they were cats or dogs. All day while teaching,
I had that dog on my mind. Hoped my neighbors would keep it but that evening, I
got a call from her saying that her husband did not like dogs. And so, I became
the owner of this little black puppy. Already had a huge 125 pound dog and a
huge cat but since I was going through a divorce, somehow bringing another pet
into the house just didn’t matter. And this puppy seemed special.
After my dog and cat
met her, it was rather chaotic but the puppy followed me all over the house. I
guessed she was about twelve weeks old or so and I also guessed that she had
followed some kids to school because trust me, I saw more than my share of that
during my time spent there. Had forgotten what puppies smelled like and oh that
smell only can compare to that of a newborn baby—magical and soothing both at
once. Never was sure what mixture she was but she was all black except for some
white on her chest. Even her big eyes were black and so big that when you
looked at them, you found yourself falling into those huge dark pools of eyes.
No doubt she had some collie in her, for I had two collies and her face shape
was the same but I had no idea if she would stay a small dog or become a big
one.
Here I was with her
in bed with me, my huge dog on the floor and the cat in and out; this went on
for weeks. Had no choice that first week but to put her in a cage while I was
gone. Seemed to work out fine until one day I just sensed that something was
wrong when I pulled into the driveway. As soon as I opened the door, there she
was hanging by her feet upside down. She had gotten the top of the cage open
trying to escape. Thank God I got there when I did for she was frantic and so
was I. That was the end of the cage forever for her.
What to name her? All
kinds of pet’s names went whizzing through my head and none of them seemed
right. As a friend of mine said “You have to know your dog before you name it.”
And she was so right. The part of me that is Native American heritage seemed to
stir up a name and I came up with Shiloh. Not only did it fit her but just
saying that beautiful word made it roll right off of my tongue. And so that was
her name but she was also called “Shys” and boy did it fit her!
Goldie, my huge dog,
was the alpha dog [or so she thought] but really my cat Chessie was the alpha
of the three. Shiloh looked upon Goldie as a mentor and took on her gentle ways
but unlike her, she started following me everywhere I went in the house.
Already she was developing separation anxiety and it would last her lifetime. I
should mention that when I got Goldie at age two from the shelter and brought
her home with my then-husband, she never barked. We had gotten her some stuffed
animals. She carried them around the house like her babies but her signal that
she wanted to go outside to the bathroom was to stand in front of the door with
one of those in her mouth. And so Shiloh
picked up on that—the not picking up stuff animals or playing with them but not
barking. She was docile too. Shiloh followed me everywhere I went and developed
a love for dog food but then changed her taste to human food. I found myself
not able to leave a morsel of food on the counter or kitchen table, or she’d
finagle some way to get it. Always. And it only got worse as far as her frenzy
for food. Did it make her huge? No for she grew into a medium sized dog and was
never fat and was never sick.
When I took her
outside on a leash, she was always hesitant and fearful of unknown things:
Those two qualities became her makeup forever. If a leaf fell on her, she would
become hysterical and drag me to the front door. Didn’t matter if we were far
away from the house or close for she always did that. Goldie died when Shiloh
was five. And by then, she became more and more needy. My gosh, you couldn’t
pet her enough or love on her for it was always more and more. The cat noticed
this trust me and he had his share of my time as well.
The bigger Shiloh
got, she couldn’t sleep with me but had the run of the house with Chessie.
Heaven only knows what transpired between those two. If company were here, she
had to have their attention and always got it—it was those big black eyes of
hers that won everyone over. Everyone who knew her loved her and she knew it.
She expected their reaction always.
Several years ago,
she did something that no dog I had ever did: She learned to open the
refrigerator! Never did it in my presence but it was always when I was either
somewhere else in this house or off on an errand. I’d come in here or come home
to find the door wide open and food missing. She apparently scouted out what
she wanted to eat and got it! I couldn’t begin to tell you the things she
devoured. And she also knew what a box of spaghetti looked like as well as a
box of Kraft macaroni and cheese for she attacked those on the counter and
dragged them onto the floor and I would find remnants of raw pasta everywhere.
She must have thought it would be cooked but alas and alack, it wasn’t. It was
a mess to clean up which can only be referenced to having to pick up a thousand
pickup sticks in a hurry less they be eaten. Over and over this happened until
I had to start putting those boxes in the cabinet or in another room.
I felt like some
contestant on a show when I got home from the grocery store. Anything fresh and
edible had to be put in the refrigerator right away or she’d grab it out of the
bag and run with it. Nothing like marathon putting groceries away and I became
a master of it every week.
In all of her twelve
years with me, she never played with a toy or ate a milk bone. Just wasn’t in
her makeup or perhaps something happened to her before I became her owner; I
never knew. When I left the house, I would tell her where I was going; the cat
was oblivious unless I mentioned chicken but Shiloh seemed to understand. And
when I got back with food, she was in seventh heaven for she could never get
enough of it. Another thing that separated her from the other dogs that I had
was that when she got near me, she always licked my hand as if to say “I love
you.” No other dog had ever done that before till she did.
She became my shadow
everywhere I went in this house. And if someone else were here, she became
their shadow following them even into the bathroom—didn’t matter to her but
mattered to guests. Friends accepted it. She had two favorite places to hang
out: One was under this computer and in front of the chair and the other was
under the kitchen table. She liked hiding places. I would get hysterical when I
couldn’t find her because both of the places were dark and she was mostly all
black making her almost invisible. But her hiding didn’t last long for she got
the attention –either from me or from the cat. When Chessie died, Shiloh sensed
it and was in remorse; that didn’t last long because I rescued a cat that some
lowlife had thrown out of a truck near my house. Once again, Shiloh shared this
house with a cat—Maysie Apple a calico and a cat that wanted the attention.
Trust me, both got it
from everyone and from me. You know when you have a pet, you have this weird
idea that it will live forever knowing full well that it is impossible. You
think they are invincible; maybe that helps heal the wound when you lose them.
It has to be a human trait called denial. I’ve had it a lot with all of the
dogs and cats I’ve had over the years.
And last week, I found myself in it again: Shiloh started not eating.
That was a huge red flag. That lasted two days and then her appetite came back
with a fervor but I could tell something was wrong: You just sense it. Day by
day I kept in touch with the vet’s office and a friend of mine who is on a
board of directors for a shelter. Shiloh was given baby aspirins every twelve
hours and seemed to rally until her front leg gave out. This past Tuesday
evening, her back legs gave out and she was under the kitchen table on pillows
I had placed there. Eating but getting worse and worse. Watched her hobble down
the hall and go into the bathroom; she knew there was a vent in there and the
air conditioning was on. More pillows for her and she was covered up with
either towels or pillow cases. And then she took a severe turn for the worse.
I didn’t leave her
side except to come into the kitchen to get something to drink: I had no
appetite either. Her breathing got labored and she couldn’t get herself up. And
I knew the time had come. My sons offered to come here and take her to the vet
but I had a backup with a humane officer and chose that for she had to be lifted
and I couldn’t lift her. Her final trip was in a sling made out of sheet and
carried lovingly by the officer to the vet. I followed in my car with tears
streaming down my face so much that I could hardly see to get there. But I did.
He got there after me, brought her into the vet’s office, told them that he had
to fill out some paper work and I was escorted into a room with Shiloh being
carried by a vet. By this time, she was dying. I told her I loved her, petted
her face and looked for the last time into those huge black eyes that were now
cloudy and distant. The vet gave her a shot and in a matter of a minute or so,
she was gone. I looked at her on the table as I had done so with other pets and
just didn’t want it to be. And yet, I owed it to her—I owed her to be out of
her misery.
Signed papers to have
her cremated and left crying so hard that I am not sure how I got home. Felt
like I was going to throw up and worse was coming into the house where she had
been for twelve years. I thought I would see her—your mind plays tricks on you
like that. The emptiness I felt and feel is overpowering. In all the years of
having dogs, Shiloh was the only one I had picked out and looking back to that
day at school, I am so glad that I saw her and even more glad that I was her
owner for twelve years. She gave me fits at times with her grabbing food but
she gave me unconditional love. Isn’t that what pets do anyway? As a firm
believer that animals have souls, I know that she is in a far better place and
not suffering anymore. But oh how I will miss her. When she died, part of my
heart went with her. She was a blessing
and loved more than I can ever say. Shiloh was mine or maybe I belonged to her.
Just thankful that fate intervened that warm December morning twelve years ago.
Her eyes said it all; glad they “spoke “ to me.
Sherry Hill
