death, dignity, and Dick's cheeseburgers: saying goodbye to the pug on wheels

Parker Joe, the pug on wheels. Sorry for another sad post. It won’t be so dreary next time, I promise. I appreciate your patience with me.

Trigger Warning: death and dying, death of a pet

It’s Time

How many ice packs does it take to keep a dead body fresh? This is the question I was pondering as I stood in the freezer aisle of the grocery store a few Tuesdays ago.

I had spent the day trying to get my dog Parker to eat things - anything - and he’d responded very well to an appetite stimulant. I relaxed into relief. As long as he had an appetite, he would survive. He just had to make it to Thursday night, when the Vet would come to our home to do the deed. On Friday morning, we’d take him to Resting Waters, our local water cremation funeral home. I planned to wrap his body in ice packs overnight to preserve his dignity as best I could.

Yes, I know that Veterinarians will handle this service for you. You can say goodbye to your pet, and you don’t have to deal with the nitty gritty details of handling their body. But it was important to me, for some reason, that I be the one to take him all the way. And I didn’t want a rushed hand-off late at night or for him to spend the night in some sterile storage freezer. I wanted to be the one to hand him off, to have the extra time to say goodbye. No judgement if this isn’t your thing. People handle death in all sorts of ways.

The thing about death is it’s unpredictable. Things don’t always go according to plan. By Wednesday, even the appetite stimulant had stopped working - Parker wouldn’t eat a thing. My roommate Dave took the day off work to sit with him, while I ran back to the grocery store, grateful they already had rotisserie chickens warming under the heat lamps at 7:00 AM. Parker took his final pills wrapped in warm, greasy chicken skin.

Later, once Dick’s Drive-In opened, I picked up a few cheeseburgers. He showed a flicker of interest, but his appetite was fleeting. We knew it was time. He managed only a few bites of chicken and half a cheeseburger before falling back to sleep. His last meal.

This is his angriest, I’m ready for dinner face

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Death

We moved everything up - I had made several different appointments over the weeks to allow for a variety of circumstances, and everyone we worked with was incredibly understanding. We honestly could not have had a better death experience.

The Veterinarian from Just Love Animal Care, came to our home and talked us through the process in detail. We had heard stories of dogs perking back up at the last minute when they know the end is near, but that’s not what happened. He never even woke up or acknowledged her presence. She even brought him a McDonald’s quarter pounder and fries and he hardly even sniffed it. He was ready to go.

I lit two candles - one purple, and one white Clementine-scented candle that always reminds me of my sweet pug, Clem. She passed nine years ago, and I hoped she’d be there for Parker as he crossed over. The vet gave him a couple rounds of calming sedatives, and we sat quietly, waiting for them to take effect. She invited us to share stories about his life while we waited - something Dave and I later agreed was deeply cathartic.

One of my favorite memories is how much he loved racing. He’d be cruising along on his wheels and spot another dog up ahead - just minding their own business, blissfully oblivious. But to Parker, it was go time. He’d fly into race mode, barking his head off as he zoomed past them in a burst of pride. The other dog would look around, bewildered, unsure of what was even happening, while Parker triumphantly claimed victory in a race which only he was participating in. A sweet, competitive king.

Or the time Parker and Dave were walking me to the gym early in the morning. It was dark, and no other dogs were around. All of a sudden, he started racing down the sidewalk, apropos of nothing. We had to jog to keep up. Dave looked at me and said in his very best impression of Forest Gump “He just likes RUNNING!” I can never not laugh at that memory.

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Afterlife

After he passed, I picked him up to take him to the car, so we could drive him to Resting Waters… when he proceeded to release what must have been 17 years worth of urine all over the floor. This too was oddly cathartic, cleaning him and the floor one last time. With his incontinence, it’s something we’ve lovingly done multiple times a day since he came to us.

The drive to West Seattle during rush hour was surreal. We couldn’t figure out how to remove the seat covers in the back and I refused to leave him back there by himself so he laid on my lap in the front seat the whole way. It was one of those awful rush hour situations where only one car moves through each light and the Waze ETA keeps creeping up exponentially, moving slower than snails. It was hell. Probably a thousand times I regretted insisting that we take him there ourselves, apologizing to Dave non stop.

Everyone is just driving home and living their lives and our dog is dead. He’s dead. We’re sitting in traffic and waiting at the light and he’s laying on my lap… dead.

At one point, I noticed his eyes were open, and I closed them. Dave mentioned quietly that he’d been trying not to look. Later I realized just how challenging this drive must have been for Dave. He broke down at Resting Waters and told us he didn’t want to spend too much time looking at him dead, that he’d rather remember him alive than dead. I hadn’t considered that, but it made so much sense. I wish I had been more thoughtful about his needs in that moment.

We arrived at Resting Waters and debated over silly details like parking. Parker’s former hydrotherapist works at Resting Waters now, and she was there to greet us. She had created a candlelit altar for us to lay him down and say our final goodbyes.

Parker swim therapy

She’d even bought him fresh flowers - purple and white. She said the colors made her think of him, and I found it synchronistic that those are the same colors I had chosen during his death. We were all crying, telling stories. She stayed late, long after closing, and cried with us.

We shared stories about how he used to swim. At first, he’d paddle smoothly, but as he tired, his left arm would start doing all the work, slapping the water so hard it splashed everyone around him. It was adorable. During hydrotherapy, he’d soak her glasses with his splashing, and I’d always rush to grab her a towel.

I just kept kissing the spot above his wrinkle, over his nose. That’s my favorite spot. I wish I could kiss it one more time.

Resting Waters took care of all of us in so many ways, I cannot even begin to thank them. They truly treated us like family. At one point, his former hydrotherapist began crying again when it hit her: she would be the one to guide him through both his very first and his very last swim.

Toweling off post-swim

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Grief

Why am I sharing this sad and morbid tale? Death is something we all have to go through, at one time or another. Why not make it special? Why not make it yours?

I do not think that talking about death takes the grief away. We still can’t empty his water dish. I’m hesitant to sweep up any of his fur. It takes days to accumulate a full load of laundry now, instead of the 1-2 loads per day we went through before.

I used to wake up every morning to the sound of wheels in the hallway but now I just sleep until my alarm. It brings me no satisfaction. When Dave says he’s going to the store, I immediately ask “Where’s Parker? I can go sit with him” like I always used to. And then I remember: he’s gone.

I thought I would feel relief. Freedom. Gratitude. But mostly I just feel sad and stuck in these endless days of silence and apathy. What does it matter if the dishes aren’t done? If the bed isn’t made? If the blinds stay down? Day after day. What does it matter… when Parker is gone?

I keep waiting for my second wind. Maybe I’ll be productive today. It’s depression wrapped in grief. What if I stay busy? Will I move on? What if I’m not being present in my grief? Not processing? What if I’m not here for him? What if I’m not here for Dave? The days go by too quickly and yet the days feel like they will never end. I guess there is no right or wrong way to grieve. I guess that it’s ok to not be ok.

And it’s ok to talk about death. It’s ok to talk about grief. Telling this story makes it real. Telling this story reminds me that he was special. His peaceful death is one I will cherish, if it had to happen, I’ll forever be grateful for the way it happened. And that makes the grief feel just a little bit better. He had an amazing life. It was time. And it was meaningful.

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Visitation

Two days before Parker died, he took his last walk on his wheels. I wasn’t there - it was just Parker and Dave in the early morning quiet of sunrise. Parker started blindly inching towards the grass off the sidewalk, no longer able to see where he was going.

“Sorry about that, Bud!” Dave said, carefully adjusting him back onto the sidewalk. “I know you hate the grass.”

And he did. Parker never liked walking on the grass in his wheels. He was always avoiding it, opting for a more sturdier surface. Always much more confident on pavement.

I didn’t know about the conversation they’d had on their walk. I was hesitant to tell Dave this next story, the morning after Parker died. I didn’t know it would be so meaningful, or bring him so much comfort. We think that gives it more depth, a private message just between Parker and Dave - something only they would know.

On the night after Parker died, he came to me in a dream. He was younger, and happy, wearing a giant grin on his face. He looked just like the photo we put on one of his holiday cards a few years back.

Parker looked at me, and his grin got even wider, and a bit mischievous, like the Cheshire Cat.

“Tell Dave I’m running in the grass this time…” and then, covertly: “He’ll know what that means.”

Or you can buy me a coffee if the spirit moves you.

***dreary dendrophile will be out of office the next 1-2 weeks, focusing on a career transition. Thank you for your patience with any delays in new posts. Thank you all for being such amazingly supportive humans. I love you beyond reason.