On the Friday before Thanksgiving, my parents’ dog Chloe died. She followed them down for coffee in the morning, and when it was time to stand up, her legs disagreed. She died at the vet, sedated and unafraid, surrounded by people who loved her.
Chloe was not always an easy dog to love. She came into the family not long after the passing of her predecessor Loxley, who was the kind of dog about which old men reminisce on their deathbeds. Chloe was a rescue dog, found chained to a tree in a cruel backyard, forced to bear a litter when she was just six months old, and with injuries and fears that plagued her the rest of her life. Boots seemed to scare her the most.
Chloe licked. On sweaty summer days, she licked the back of your knees as you ascended the stairs. It was maybe the grossest feeling in the history of feelings. She licked if you sat near her. She licked the air if you sat far away. Perhaps the most frequently uttered phrase in that house in the eleven years she called it home was “Chloe, no licking.”
She was the only dog my daughter has ever really known.
On cold New Hampshire nights as Emma shivered with fevers and fear, Chloe would hop up on the foot of the bed, content to sit watch and provide comfort. That ever-present licking was sometimes the only thing that would elicit laughter and smiles from her at her sickest.
In about an hour one Saturday afternoon, Emma taught Chloe the sign for “sit.” From then on, Chloe would see Emma sign, and she would sit. Emma would immediately rush over and take her licks. It was the damndest thing, this kid who can’t speak and this dog who couldn’t sign, communicating and loving the hell out of it.
The weekend before Chloe died, Emma squatted in front of the dog as she often did, admonishing her not to lick, knowing all the while that she was going to get licked silly, and laughing hysterically while she did. She reveled in the dog breath, bathed in the adoration of this well-loved mutt. She didn’t know she was saying goodbye.
The good news is that Chloe was ok right up until she wasn’t. She didn’t go slowly like many dogs, failing one piece at a time. She was fine, and then she was dying.
That dark Friday, I sat Emma on the couch, and told her what had happened. She crumpled inward: wastepaper-faced, streaked with unending tears. She kept saying “I don’t want her to die. I don’t want her to die.” So I sat on the couch, and I wept with her, stroking her hair and tasting the saltwater of her ocean of sorrow.
After half an hour or so, she got herself under control, and the reailty of what had happened hit her. “I’m never going to see Chloe again,” she said, and the sobs came anew.
I am an atheist. I do not believe in God, and having sat in foxholes (admittedly, training foxholes, but foxholes nonetheless), I know the adage that there are no atheists in foxholes is a load of bunk. I do not believe that I will exist as a spirit or a soul or any form of sentient being after I die. I do not believe in heaven.
And yet, faced with the overwhelming sadness of my daughter, I told her that Chloe was in dog heaven now, playing with Loxley. Emma smiled at the thought, even though she had never known Loxley, and she said Chloe was probably licking her to death.
In this, I believe.
My gosh. You have turned a story about the death of a dog into a metaphysical/philosophical treatise. And you have done it beautifully. We share a name, your daughter and me. I like that. Some of your images like wastepaper faced are vivid and wonderful. I feel as you do about religion, and yet I would have told my daughter the same to comfort her.
Thanks so much, Emma. She would like the name-sharing, too!
This is such a beautiful post! I’m so sorry for your loss. I don’t believe in the afterlife either, but I’d sure love to think the picture you painted for Emma is the correct one!
Thanks, Stacie. I’d like to think that as well.
Welcome back to the grid and welcome back with such a good post. I am very sorry for the loss of Chloe, yet I’m glad you shared Emma’s stages of grief with your readers. This is a great example of how parents choose to soothe their children even when the words don’t align with our beliefs or even the truth (example: “Mommy/Daddy is never going to die. I will never leave you.”)
Perfect final two paragraphs. Good to read your work again, Ben.
Thanks, E. It’s good to be back.
I’m in tears after reading this. What a bittersweet story.
Thanks for reading, Bee!
A beautifully told story. I’m sorry for your loss and appreciate you sharing these tender moments with us. Well done.
Thanks so much for your kind words.
I’m very sorry (and a bit heartbroken) for your family’s loss.
Thanks, madam. Also, drinks?
Ugh. I hate death, too. I also have older cats, and this has had me thinking about them as well.
I’m very sorry about Chloe. When our dogs and cat died, we told our children something similar about them being able to play with each other and GG (my grandmother) forever. We’re atheist, too, but it helped the kids feel better about losing my grandmother and our pets, all in about 15 months.
Yeah, having that personal connection – or belief in a personal connections – really lessons the feelings of aloneness, etc. Thanks for reading!
Losing a pet is so hard. Reminds me of the time we had to euthanize our kids’ guinea pig. We had the opposite problem. My daughter was in her early elementary years and was attending Catholic school. She couldn’t handle the thought of “murdering” her pet and breaking one of the ten commandments. We had to call in the priest for back-up. He was able to put her at ease. At that age, that all that matters!
Wow – that’s got to be hard. Trying to reconcile spiritual belief and complying with the tenets of that belief while doing the right thing must have been tough. Good on the priest for helping out!
Losing a loved one is always hard, no matter the age, and no matter whether the loved one is human or animal. What a touching and well-told story.
Thanks so much for the thoughts and the kind words!
Bittersweet. Thanks for telling this story, and doing it so well!
<3
What a poignant story. The balanced description of the heartbreak of losing a pet balanced with memories of the love that she brought to your family’s lives is beautifully done. I’m very sorry for the loss of this beloved pet.
Thanks, Christie!
That’s a tough one! I’ve heard something similar from friends who are atheists–oddly, in pet-death related stories as well. Very well written!
Yeah, I don’t know that I would have been able to go there for the loss of a human – my feelings about the matter are too strong. But for pets, it seemed an easier jump.
I’m an atheist as well and I suspect I would take the same approach. There will be time to talk about philosophy later.
Agreed, and I hope this helps her in forming her own philosophies, etc.
Hard to write about the death of anything without sounding lugubrious (a word that is practically onomonopoetic). Lovely – sad – post and I don’t much like dogs. But I found myself sort of liking the licking Chloe. And I’m sorry Emma is so sad – that’s hard to watch, hard to feel. Maybe lick her cheek?
This is wonderful! What a sad, sweet story. So glad to have found your blog through Yeah Write… There aren’t enough of you Daddy bloggers out there.
I understand about telling a young child about heaven… I have my own thoughts about it, and I don’t really like to use the word ‘heaven’ because of its connotations… but I told my son that his baby brother was in heaven, and that it’s a really beautiful and safe place. And I sort of believe it.
Looking forward to reading more.
What a sweet story of a little girl and her dog. (It sounds like Chloe practically was her dog! I love how they were able to communicate with each other.)
So sorry about Chloe. The sadness of a child missing a beloved animal is heartbreaking.
I believe Chloe and Loxley are playing in heaven too. A very beautiful, moving post. A dog is a difficult companion to lose. I lost my grandfather and dog in the same month seven years ago. I cried way more for the dog. Way more.
I feel like the purpose of religion is comfort, so it makes sense to me that you told your daughter that.