A Year Without Regrets?

I think I lost my innocence last year.  I know, that's an odd thing to say at the age of 43.

It started when my boisterous Julia-Child-length-friend found out her cancer had returned.  She was only three weeks out from finishing her treatment.  Really?  And this time it was in her lungs.  Both of them.  I stood over her hospital bed as she told me and wept on her two inches of hair.  We clung to each other as only two mothers can do both consoling the other and yet having no words to help.  I didn't sleep much that night.  A dry depression sunk over me like that hurtful swallowing you do to stop tears.

Then a few days later we found out Tally, our dog, had Cushings disease.  It was treatable but not curable and the Vet said she wouldn't live out the year even if we proceeded to do the expensive treatments. You might think I'm about to wax on about how much I love this dog.  You're wrong.  I hated her.  Well, it wasn't her so much as just the whole dog thing.  I never was a pet-lover and dogs just gross me out, all slobbery and fartsy.  A friend had offered the already aging dog to us one summer five years ago.  My three kids squealed and my husband gave me the pitiful you-can-say-no-if-you-want-to-but-what-a-meanie-you'd-be look.  And in a moment of vacation weakness, I said yes.

A few weeks later we had a thunderstorm.  Tally was terrified of them and jumped on my bed about four hundred times that night.  I literally growled at my husband who, not surprisingly, slept through the whole thing.  We bought tranquilizers for the dog since we live in Tornado Ally. The friend who gave her to us said Tally had never done that before.  Uh-huh.

Beware, even if your children swear on their life to care for said dog, YOU will be the one doing it. Every morning Tally would wake me up all eager and jumpy.  She'd sometimes have to wait on me to pee before she could.  I didn't love her or pet her or even talk sweetsy to her; but I did have compassion.  I fed her.

It was the eve of Christmas Eve when we told the kids we were going to have to put Tally down.  They said their goodbyes, gave her treats, cried.  I took her outside to brush her one last time.  I'm not sure why, I just felt she needed it. We put her in the car then Steve and I left the kids at home and headed to the vet.  On the way I felt restless and angry.  I snapped at every question Steve directed to me.  He let me and Tally off at the door and parked.

I took Tally in.  She sniffed along the floor and in every crevice possible.  I made her sit.  Her paws slid out from under her.  I realized for the first time how decrepit she had become.  I avoided looking at her and slid more treats into her mouth.  Her eyes caught mine.  They were big.  She was a quiet dog, never barked much. I could tell when she needed to go outside by the panic look in her eyes.  Her eyes were happy now and her tail wagged.

Behind me a gruff old woman attempting to whisper but failing said, "That dog's tail is wagging now but I'll bet it won't be wagging in an hour."

I wanted to shout that I could hear her.  Tears threatened to slide down my cheeks.  I tried to choke them back and remind myself I was NOT one of those people--the ones that think dogs are humans.  I was a dog hater and crying over one was not okay for me.  But my tears didn't listen.  By the time I reached the counter, I was sobbing.  The receptionist spoke carefully as if one wrong move might make the lunatic in front of her blow the place up.  She led a wagging Tally back to a room and said they'd call me when they got her ready.

Steve came in and tried to talk but I continued to snap.  He quieted and left me in my weird don't-love-dogs grief.  Finally we were called back.  The Vet treated me like someone who'd loved this dog from birth and was now saying good-bye to their best friend.  I felt like a liar.  The vet gave us a few minutes alone.  I told Tally things that people who loved her had asked me to say.  Then I told her I was sorry I hadn't loved her. I petted her like a child getting a immunization shot.  The vet came back in and told us what to expect; he gave her the medicine and she was gone.

That afternoon my nose looked like a Christmas Rudolph impression and my eyes like snowballs.  I knew it was probably delayed grief over my beautiful friend and her cancer.  But the next morning I got out of bed ready to take Tally outside and it hit me--hard.  I melted back into my covers and sobbed.  Plastering my face into the feather pillow, I wailed.  I felt regret.  No one else in my family was sobbing, they'd all loved her and had no regrets.  I never once said I love you to that stupid dog.  And now, I regretted it.  Because, gulp, I did love her.  She had sunk into my heart without my knowing it.

Loss is terrible.  Loss with regret is worse.

My friend with cancer will probably get sick of me now because I don't want any more regrets.  I know regrets lurk nearby like those little dust pieces floating in a sunbeam from the window, but I can try to keep them at bay.

For my Julia and Tally, tell someone (or some dumb dog) that you love them today.