bearKat remembered

It’s been exactly a month since the last time I was able to hug my best friend bearKat, and I’m just now starting to get my head in a place where I am able to talk and write about that final day and what she meant to me and my life without totally breaking down like an infant. Look, I am the father of an amazing almost 3 year-old boy. He is smart. He is kind. And he feels all the feels life dishes on the daily, even more so than his sensitive mother and father combined, all day every day. He often displays fantastical moments where the tears of sadness or shrieks of joy, for a lack of a better way of saying it, explode out of his being. It’s truly a wonder to witness, and it is one of my favorite things about life right now. If it’s the joy he’s sharing, I try to see what he’s seeing and ride that tidal wave of awesome too. If he’s noticeably upset, I remind him to breathe and try to articulate to me why he is feeling that way. More often than not, there is no clear answer to be found or translated. The tears are met with my hug and patience of letting him cry it out while calmly reminding him, “Everything’s okay … Everything’s okay.” Even if my words are lost in the mix and mainly serve as a reminder for myself during that time or my own times of sadness, somebody has to say it because it’s true.

There have been plenty of times this past month when I felt like I was an almost 3 year-old boy. For days after I buried bearKat, my waterproof phone was constantly tested by flash floods of salty tears after reading full-length messages and emails telling me individual stories from close friends about their personal favorite bearKat moments and how she made them feel as happy and loved as any dog or pet they ever had. I did a pretty good job of damning the river of tears in public the week after her passing, until other people reminded me of how important she was to them too. This reminded me of the time my dad broke down in my arms after his father passed away and the final straw holding back his tears was him thinking about me losing my best friend instead of him just losing his father. More on that in a minute, but I’m just going to say that there was some beautiful synchronicity going on in my world and that these kind of moments served as a another reminder that everything is bigger than just ourselves, especially when we think it’s just about ourselves.

Before I go back into the recent past, starting with a wake-up call I couldn’t snooze on that fateful Sunday morning in November, I would like to ask a question I’ve never heard anyone say or do. Have you ever known anyone to cry in a swimming pool? I know I’ve seen and heard of people crying in the shower. I’ve been there a time or two, and I’ve seen that happen in movies too. But crying in a swimming pool? I’m sure the lifeguard who was on duty, if anyone even noticed at that time at all (most unlikely the case, because everyone’s dealing with their own problems), probably just thought my goggles leaked and chlorine or allergies strained my eyes and had gotten the best of me. Any way you looked at the situation, I have never heard of anyone crying in a swimming pool.

Full discretion and full picture, it wasn’t like I was standing in the shallow end making a scene for all to see. This cry happened two days after bearKat passed on. I was swimming laps at my regular gym, and I was deep in thought about the disturbing newfound silence at our house without bearKat greeting us at the door. Then, like you do when you lose a friend, you try to figure out the details of what happened and what was said and done the final time you saw each other. I had already spent a couple of days thinking about our final day together, but my mind took a sudden left turn and wandered back to the previous Friday and the last quality time we had together.

That Friday, I was packed and ready to go pick up Avett from his school and hit the road to Kentucky. We had plans to spend the night with my parents, drive further north to support another close friend coaching a home playoff game for Centre College (he won, by the way), and have a total boys adventure while Emily and bearKat had an all-girls weekend to themselves to relax. The thing was, when I got home that Friday earlier than I originally expected, there was a huge package sitting on the front porch. I knew it was a present Emily had wanted for a long time to treat herself. I knew I had two options. Because I am not one to ever sit still, I could either go for a long run around the neighborhood with my extra time to kill, just because, or I could open up and put together this big gift to surprise Emily when she got home from work later. I chose the latter. I knew the gift wasn’t going to build itself, and it just felt like the right thing to do. Fast forward to the swimming pool, and I simply lost it. On the outside, I was doing smooth freestyle strokes along the top of the water. On the inside, below the surface, I was unsteadily freestyling my emotions that were getting the best of me. Seemingly impossible to see it happen in person as it is reading that it really did happen, I was crying happy tears into the water. I was crying because I knew that making that decision to bypass a solo jog for the sake of my temporary physical well-being allowed me to spend about two more solid hours with bearKat inside the house with just the two of us that I would never have gotten back again. And as I put together Emily’s gift, bearKat laid down as close to me as she could, without getting in the way of the gift or my way in general, and we both silently smiled along to the varied discography of The Beatles on Pandora. So much of that last sentence was the story of our friendship. So much of that sentence was always felt in the moment while we were together. Thinking and knowing it was probably the best decision I had made in a long line of good decisions was too much for me not to cry in the pool. I couldn’t control my appreciation. And then I got out, showered, changed into dry clothes and dry eyes, and I was living my new normal again.

Now, back to the story about Sunday, December 18^th, 2018. Like most parents who have shared a bed with a toddler, you already know that sharing is an overstatement. My son is an early riser, by nature, and this given morning I was already wide awake, hanging on the very edge of a king-sized bed with a certain someone’s elbow and foot on my face (How is this even possible and yet regular?). It’s important to note here that 99% of the time I sleep with my phone turned off. This particular morning, the phone was still on and on the end table next to the bed closest to my head. I heard the phone buzz. My face was facing my son, not the table. I didn’t have to be a detective to know that my phone just received a new text message, but I will say that at that very instant I heard a voice internally, calmly, and immediately say, “It’s Emily, and bearKat is in trouble.” I heard the voice as clear as day. Avett was sound asleep, still dreaming.

I slid off the bed, saw the message from Emily asking me to call her ASAP, and proceeded to hear my call’s dial tone ringing before Avett even knew I was out of bed. Emily wasted no time informing me that bearKat was in the middle of her 3^rd seizure of the morning, back to back to back. Before you read further, just know that I’m not going to spare many details. You’ve read worse events happening to people every day in the news, but all of these details meant something in the moment, as my world started to drastically change. Emily gave me the quick recap of her morning to that point. bearKat slept on her bed beside our bed every night. She woke Emily this morning with howls of a full-blown seizure. She, like she did once before the past few months, had no control of her bowels. She let it all out. That big one lasted several minutes. The next wave of seizures consisted of bearKat moaning pretty consistently, but her entire body was so tense that you might say she was frozen. Same as a few spells before, Emily could see the fear and confusion in bear’s eyes. Emily knew from our experiences in the past few years that the only thing she and we could do for bearKat at those times was to remain calm, clear the area from potential hazards, and reassure bearKat with our eyes and energy and soft touch that we were fully present with and for her and that everything was gonna be okay. Even if we don’t know it for certain, it’s vital that we believe that much.

At the time of my call, bearKat was still on the floor, and Emily needed back-up and direction. bearKat was our dog, but she was my best friend. I brought her into the marriage, and we both knew it was my overriding decision for her care, the total opposite of how we mutually decide our son’s well-being. With my son still sleeping, his state of dreaming actually calmed my mounting and surrounding chaos. My mind raced at warp speed, but there was clarity. I ran through the multiple choice options ahead of us. bearKat was either 1) at the end of her road and would pass away at home very soon, 2) we could take her to an emergency vet to get the help she needed and she would get better, or 3) we could take her to an emergency vet to get the help she needed and she wouldn’t. That said, the final resting plans for bearKat, whether it was that day or ten years from that day, had always been for her to be buried in my parents’ backyard. She spent the majority of her days, like me, on that land, and it would be the perfect place for us to visit and reflect and for her to call home.

Emily was alone with bearKat, and I suddenly felt alone a world away. I knew that Avett and I needed to be with our ladies, right then and there. But they needed us as much as we did them. I told Emily I’d call the emergency vet places in Bowling Green and call her back. Nobody answered my call. Nothing was open. Emily was fine with driving bearKat to Bowling Green, but she was nervous that they would never make it an hour with the continual painful moaning. Lucky for everyone, she found the Rivergate Pet Emergency Center was open. It was an option closer to me than others in the area and not too far from her. (Side personal note, that center was across the street from the first pediatric center our son went to after birth.) The answer was clear for action. It was open, it felt right, and time was ticking. I told her I’d meet her there, and I got our son up and dressed and in my dad’s truck in less than 5 minutes (that alone should count as a miracle). This is also where I thank the heavens for having neighbors like the ones we have. Our neighbor, Pete, answered Emily’s crying call in the morning and promptly ran over to help gently lay bearKat onto Emily’s car’s backseat. Surrounded by comfy blankets and pillows, she was hurting but as good as she could be in the moment (story of all our lives, right?).

The thought of jumping in my dad’s truck served several purposes. It was big, so it gave me space to breathe and think about everything with my toddler in tow. It obviously had a bed in the back, in case I needed to transport bearKat’s body back home. And it had Sirius Radio, so I could let the universe tell me what was going on instead of me drowning into the known music of my CD’s. When you live in a world filled with around the clock intention like Emily and I do, the music/art makes a difference as much as the people you hang around. I didn’t know what was happening or what was going to happen. I felt comfort in not knowing what was going to play on the radio next, with consistent quality radio without a station that would fade away. I didn’t need anything fading away this morning. The dependable radio was something else to comfort me and keep me sane, in a desperate time of need. You see, two other major death experiences in my life so far have been my two grandfathers, both of whom I am formally named after. It was during Charles’ (aka Papa’s) funeral procession when my dad turned on the radio and Joan Osborne’s What If God Was One Of Us came out of nowhere and spoke to my heart. That song has been the forever soundtrack of that moment. Then, years later, when Moorman (aka Pop Monie) passed away in a hospital in Nashville, I just knew in my heart while walking back to my car in the hospital parking lot that I had spent my last living moment with my first best friend. Before I turned the keys and radio in my car, I silently asked for a sign. Call it faith or just pure luck, but the random station at that moment played The Jackson 5’s I’ll Be There. I honestly felt Pop Monie’s energy and presence in the car, and I’ve felt that way with both grandfathers in my times of need ever since. Point being, in both of those life-defining moments, it was music and art that helped me cope through my biggest moments of fear and feelings of aloneness during a major shift in my life.

So, as I pulled onto I-65, about the time my son started to have a full-on, playful, back-and-forth conversation with his brand new PJ Mask Catboy doll (something I was extremely grateful that I had given to him specifically for our boys only adventure, foreseeing a lot of time in the car during the weekend away from his mother). I turned on the radio, after alerting Emily we were on our way. Here are the songs, in order of their surprise appearances, I took note of and remember from that day while recalling what transpired and detailing where my head and heart were.

1. Chi Lites – Have You Seen Her

I got lost in the words. “Ah yeah, I’m glad I put this tape in. I’m just gon’ cruise down the road, look at the stars in the sky, and drift off into the sweet memories that I have … “ When they first sang the words “Have you seen her?”, I pictured the first time I saw bearKat. A friend of my dad’s had a dog that gave birth to four lab puppies on the same day of my sister’s birthday, November 30. That Christmas, 2005, I was given the following letter from Santa. I don’t normally keep letters or letters from Santa, but I knew I had to keep this one from the very start. It was also weirdly perfect timing for me to meet bearKat. I had just finished my first novel, and I had included a dog named Bear in the final chapter. Also, I was in dire need of an emotional pick-me-up and anchor. That manifestation of personal needs would come in the package of a newborn bearKat.

I named her bearKat because my brother Drew had been nicknamed Bearcat when he was young. I switched the c to a K, because it looked more feminine to me, and let it roll, hoping that she would be a similar, inspiring shadow to me as I continued to grow into my own. She was. The thing about bearKat, from birth to death, and everything in between, was that she had a survivor’s mentality and drive to live that pushed me in a good way every day I was around her. That was another comparison we had. I won’t bore you with the long story, but I was born more than a month before my due date. In fact, I was airlifted from Bowling Green to Louisville right after birth. Many thought I would die. I was given the last rites before getting on the helicopter, because my mom is Catholic and just wanted to make sure I would be okay if I never made it. Long story short, I made it. You already knew that, but I actually do remember some of that experience subconsciously. But this is about bearKat. bearKat was the only puppy of her litter to survive a parvo virus infection. I’ll spare you the educational details, but puppies have a slim chance of survival if they contract that virus and it goes untreated. I guess I got bearKat just in time, but I could tell right away that she was determined to do this thing called life with me. You can see her caring for one of her siblings who passed away soon after these photos below. She was more than a dog, and everyone who crossed paths with her knew it too. I will spare you a million personal stories in this post, but one that perfectly relays the sentiment and persona of bearKat being more than just a dog was in a quote from my mom a few years back. When my youngest brother came home to visit during college and noticed all of the other dogs were outside except for bearKat, my mom said, “That’s because bearKat’s like a person, can’t you tell?”

Another sign that even she thought she was above other dogs is the fact that bearKat never liked dog parks. You could see her reaction when going into any of those parks. She would look at me in disgust, nudge me to play with her instead of trying to make friends, and she would seem agitated, like if a soon to be 3 year-old was put in a room with a bunch of newborns. She always had the look of, “Really?” There were only a few occasions she didn’t object to other dogs. It was obvious and personal. She would put up with the other family dogs on Garvin Lane, whenever we had family gatherings. She was probably the only true friend my aunt’s dog Sarge ever had, other than my aunt and uncle. And she had an instant connection and motherly spot for Remus. I won’t delve into that relationship here, but you can check out Remus’ Oh-Pit-uary here- http://eastsidestorytn.com/my-oh-pit-uary-a-humble-ode-to-our-good-friend-remus/

The dog relationship that is truly noteworthy in bearKat’s story is that with Remy, the father of her pups. When bearKat was 2 years old, after I had bought her dog diapers for several months when she came of age and began leaving droplets of blood on the floor (side note, I’m not sure I have laughed harder than watching bearKat pace around my house with that tail of hers that would knock over any chair moving her hips back and forth in an attempt to shake off those squeaky diapers). She was no Houdini, as unforgettable as she was and is. Fast forward to the miracle of life happening with her and Remy, bearkat ended up giving birth to 11 pups. I gave most of them away to friends, but all of them found good homes. Because I knew that any pup of bearKat’s was going to be special, I did a puppy family photoshoot with my camera at the time and made a calendar for each puppy owner after they had given me their chosen names for the dogs. You can see it below. It is something I will treasure for a long time. Each month was highlighted with a novice glamour shot of a different puppy, saving the month of November for bearKat and Remy because of their birthdays in that month. Remy passed away a little over a year ago, but bearKat didn’t give too much affection to him other than being casual acquaintances on the Lane. I’m pretty sure bearKat knew that Remy had fathered several other litters around the time she was pregnant. It was a sad day in the world when Remy got fixed, but I’m betting bearKat laughed a little.

When I arrived to the emergency vet and met with my wife, the doctor gave us the 411. First, after Emily explained what had happened that morning and we went over her medical history to the best of our knowledge, the vet was ready to try a few more medications other than the ones that had stabilized bearKat’s condition from where it was when she first entered it. Basically, how I pictured it at that moment, bearKat had gone head first down one of those crazy tall and steep slides on a playground and the trip to the vet had allowed her to stop sliding ¾ of the way down. She was motionless, holding on the sides of the slide with all paws outstretched with all her might, trying not to fall off the end, knowing that the only way to survive this was to somehow back her way up to the top of that slide. The vet’s assistant brought in the financial situation. If bearKat was to get better from the meds in the first few hours of testing and was released for home, it would be price #1. If she had to stay the night and gradually got better the next day for release, it would be price #2. Death was not mentioned as an option, but everyone knew it was on the table as #3. Our son was having a good time with the candy and stickers the vet assistant brought into the room. Avett knew bearKat was sick. He kept saying as much. He’d said that for a few months up to that day. We have always tried to communicate situations to him as if he is a few years older. Nobody likes to be talked to like a baby, other than babies. We were able to see bearKat resting on the gurney, eyes open, breathing deeply, and holding tight onto that slide, trying not to succumb to another seizure that could happen at any second without the meds doing their thing. We kissed her and told her we’d be back for her soon.

We decided to go forward with meds and tests, and they would call us before the evening shift started to update the situation or call us before that if things worsened. We treated ourselves to a trip to IHOP to see if a quality sugar rush would help medicate our optimism.

We collectively decided that I would drive the truck back to BG, alone, wait for a few hours to see if we’d be able to pick up bearKat to take her home with us, and get everyone together and everything back to where it was just a day before. I’d like to say I was poise and calm, but I think I was just in shock. Time was moving in slow-motion.

On the radio, Bill Withers sang about his Grandma’s Hands. On a sunny Sunday drive with few cars on the road around me, I spaced out thinking about bearKat and my own grandmother’s hands. My mom’s mom, Mum, is near the end of her journey this round. For a few years now, she has had several good days, mixed in with a rare great day or two, but most of the days are just filled with confusion and unexpected twists and turns. She is fortunate to be cared for by professionals and a large family who step up when needed and check on her around the clock. I remembered a moment I shared with Emily on the dance floor at my brother Drew’s wedding a few months before my own. Emily teared up watching Mum dance with Drew. She had not had very much time with her own grandparents before their passing, and that experience of seeing Mum was something that hit her hard, and it was also something she didn’t want to lose now that she had it. I can’t remember the words I said, but I know it was something about just appreciating the moment and being thankful we’re all here then and now. I didn’t tell her that I had the same kind of breakdown when I was little when Mum’s mom was nearing death. Point being, I had practice thinking about and dealing with death. When thinking about Mum, I thought about how she related to bearKat. bearKat, like Mum, had had 11 kids. Each as different at the other, all special, and bearKat was the kind of mom like Mum where you could tell she lived her life according to her own beliefs, not letting the kids run the roost. I also thought about bearKat because we had been appreciating every single day and moment of her existence to an even higher level since this past summer.

Around June of this year, bearKat was noticeably slower around the house. She looked a little bloated, rested a lot more than usual, and she started to slip and fall because of what appeared to be weakened hips. There were plenty of times where I had to pick her up from the floor and get her upright. We thought it was just old age, but there was a rapid physical decline, filled with slips and random urinations in the house. I’m no vet, but I knew that her solid appetite was a good sign of her vitality. Either way, we decided to bring her with us to Bowling Green. We had to celebrate a pre-wedding party for my brother, and, to be completely honest, we valued our vet in Bowling Green far more than anyone in Nashville. We always felt like everyone in town was trying to upsell us like a corrupt mechanic rather than actually doing what they could to help everyone without hurting our wallets (shout out to the By Pass Animal Clinic of Bowling Green).

Anyways, I’ll give you the short story of the trip. I took bearKat to the vet at the same time my wife called to let me know that she was having pains that had her curled on the floor. Back story, a few weeks prior to this moment, Emily had told me for Father’s Day that we were pregnant again. So while the vet took a pee test from bearKat to determine if she had a life-threatening illness, or if the end was near, I played phone tag with a friend in Bowling Green who is an OBGYN. As I was the middle man between my wife and the doctor, juggling the options of hospitals, insurance, pain levels, and the unknown of whether this was my wife experiencing another ectopic pregnancy or just a random Saturday in our world (both being more similar than you’ll ever know), I was also in the middle of a waiting room with bearKat walking around my legs with her leash as we both were getting barked at by every small dog in the space. I silently prayed for a sign of help and direction for me to take action on something for both of my ladies needing me. If I hadn’t been laughing at the thought of what I and the entire scene looked like at that moment, looking down at myself and everything from a bird’s eye view, I would’ve been crying to the vet techs at the front desk. Within 10 minutes, Emily’s pains had become manageable and back to normal, and the vet walked back into the room, shocked while telling me that he was surprised to discover that bearKat was diabetic. All I heard was that Emily and bearKat were going to live another day. bearKat needed to stay at the vet for a few days, to get her blood tested and sugar levels regulated, but they would sell us medicine to give to her daily and to keep her living a good life into the unforeseeable future. They said if we hadn’t come in, she would have died within a month or so. The medicine was said to possibly keep her alive for years. What came of the pregnancy? That’s an entire other long story that involved Emily going to the doctors for shots a few times and then an emergency surgery a few weeks later. Again, point being, I was just grateful to have both of my ladies living and smiling at that moment and every day there after.

When bearKat got out of the vet, got her meds, and returned home from that fateful trip to BG, she was her bearKat again. She was as fit as a 3 year-old pup, and her energy was just as amped as ever. Her smile was back and constant. Her being able to run through the doggy door in the back of the house reminded me of the first time she was able to do so. When we first moved to Nashville, bearKat had gained some weight. I wrote it off as just residual happiness for life after giving birth to 11 puppies. It’s a well-known family fact that Mum retired from cooking decades ago, probably after her youngest left home. I’m just saying, Mum and bearKat earned it. But, yeah, my mom had come down to visit Emily and me one day. When she entered the house, I told her to sit down because we had some big family news. With the back door shut, I yelled for bearKat. bear sprinted into the house, smiling, nearly leaping through the doggy door. Emily and I applauded. My mom was mad for a few seconds because she thought we were going to announce that we were pregnant, but quickly realized that bearKat had lost weight and was herself again. My mom couldn’t help but feel excited for and proud of bearKat too. bearKat had that gift of making everyone feel better.

I was so spaced out on my drive back to Bowling Green that I didn’t even realize that I had left my car keys in a bag with Avett’s clothes that I had given to Emily at IHOP. I basically turned around on I-65 just outside of Bowling Green, and drove back to Nashville. I was hoping that I would get a call from the vet telling me bearKat was doing okay and ready to go home. Maybe subconsciously I was trying to make that happen. I turned on The Beatles channel, and spent the second loop to Nashville of the day listening to Sean Lennon being interviewed about his father’s band with insightful stories from behind the scenes and playing some of his favorite songs from the band and from the solo careers.

I met Emily near the vet to get the keys and hit the road again. I said I was okay, which I was, but I was still in shock. I drove to Bowling Green slower the second time. Still no call from the vet.

It was probably a good thing that the vet called Emily before me. Emily told me that after a few hours of meds and further tests, we were told to prepare ourselves for the worst. bearKat wasn’t getting worse, but she definitely wasn’t getting any better either. Emily said they were waiting for my call to decide what to do.

I quietly walked away from my brothers and uncles watching football in the pavilion, like they always do on Sundays, and I called the vet. I had the vet explain to me what she had said to Emily, but I knew. I didn’t want to know, but I knew. I knew that bearKat would fight to stay alive at the very edge of that slide with no chance of ever getting back to the top or go back at all to how she was before that morning. I knew she would fight forever, just for me and Emily and Avett not to feel sad. But I knew it was time to go pick her up and bring her to her final resting place. I said I’d be there within the hour.

I turned around in the driveway when I hung up the call. My dad was standing there. I tried to tell him what was said on the phone, but he could already tell. He’d been there before. My mom once told me that the first time she ever saw my dad cry was when his dog Gus passed away. Like bearKat to me, Gus had been there with my dad before marriage and kids, before he really knew who he was. Gus had been a friend above friends. So when my dad said, “It’s for the best.” All I could say was, “I know.” Literally, that is all I could say. Like when my son becomes so overwhelmed with emotions that he doesn’t know how to articulate anything, I was crying uncontrollably in my dad’s arms. I tried to talk and couldn’t.

My mom pulled into the driveway about that same time. I went inside to take a deep breath, and then I asked my mom if she’d like to go with me to meet Emily to say goodbye to bearKat. She agreed to come, and we decided to take my dad’s truck for the third and final loop of Nashville in the day.

Not much was said on the way down. My mom wrote a few texts to some friends and was there anytime I said anything, but my head and heart were heavy. I kept having the line going through my head that I was killing my best friend. I think what triggered it was the song Live Forever by Oasis. I knew nobody would want to actually live forever, and I had recently just purchased and started reading the book Walking Each Other Home: Conversations on Loving and Dying by Ram Dass and Mirabai Bush a few weeks prior, but for some reason I kept on coming back to the statement that I was killing my best friend. I wasn’t feeling shame, but I didn’t feel quite right. Then the song Not Guilty (Take 102) by The Beatles came on. The DJ mentioned it was a track written by George, my favorite, and starting talking about how George was all about reincarnation. The song is about George feeling not guilty about the band’s hardships and personal decisions. Everything about that song instantly put my mind and heart at ease. I had never heard it before that moment or knew it even existed, but that was the song I needed to feel. I drove with a lead foot the rest of the way.

Emily had dropped off Avett with his best friend and his parents. She told him that bearkat was no longer sick and had gone to sleep with the stars. Avett heard what she said, but screamed and hugged Louis as soon as he found out they were going to be playing at “the pizza place.” As Emily, my mom, and I stood in the waiting room to go back and see bearKat and the vet, everyone was on the verge of tears.

The vet wheeled bearKat into the room on the gurney again, leaving us with her for as long as we needed. The vet repeated that bearKat hadn’t gotten worse, but she was still not reacting to any of the meds in a positive light. I could tell the vet was doing the best she could to give us hope but not false hope. Here I was, feeling sorry for the vet having to be in the position she was in. As my mom and Emily talked about how good a dog bearKat has been and loved on her, I was crouched near her face, looking into her eyes and petting her ears the way she loved a million times before. Her eyes were open, but they were foggy. It wasn’t the fading eyesight I was used to for the past few years. I imagined she was looking at a blurred image of me and wanted to see more again. She was strapped on the gurney because of the medication and possibility of more seizures. I made a few noises that weren’t really a whistle or a K sound, but slight noises I made to her for years. She didn’t react like she had before. She didn’t react to me at all. She did occasionally have a random readjustment whip back with her head. It wasn’t a seizure. I’m not sure what it was, because it only happened twice. But I’m guessing she was finally losing grip on that slide, still fighting to hold on.

You need to understand, when she was young, a lot of the time it was just her and me. During that time period of my life, a time when I most needed an anchor and emotional support, bearKat was the one making sure I was okay. She had taught me that parenting isn’t telling someone what to do, it’s showing them. Actions speak louder than any words can. And that’s how she had taught me to get out of the funk I was in, just as much as that’s how I taught her how to be house-trained or behave around others. I never needed to yell or force her to do anything. She just knew, because of simple, consistent actions and gestures. Maybe I had learned how to teach her the best way I know I am taught. Either way, like when it’s perfect between Emily and me in certain situations, bearKat and I would talk and know what the other was thinking without words.

I’m not sure if it was 100% the medication, or if the real bearKat was fighting to stay with us behind that curtain of fog, but I did manage to tell her that it was okay for her to go. I didn’t cry because I was sad about that moment. I cried because I wouldn’t have more moments like we had ever again in this incarnation. I don’t claim to know anything about life after death, or anything really, but I had a feeling that she wasn’t leaving me or us. She was just leaving that body.

The vet walked back in with a final shot. My mom said she couldn’t be in the room because it was too much. Emily put her hands on bearKat’s side, giving the best side hug she could give. And right before the needle went into the IV, I stared into bearkat’s eyes, looking for my friend. I knew it wouldn’t take long for the medicine to do its thing. The vet said as much. But I can tell you two things that happened the second the medicine went in. Both of these things happened at the very same time. A drip of saliva from bearKat’s wet nose, fell to the ground like one final teardrop and final act of letting go of the pain. And, when I looked into her eyes, I felt like a saw a flash of light fade inward. It reminded me of the time I saw a light source in our basement one random night that faded into the dark when I tried to focus on what I was actually seeing. That’s a completely different story, but the point is that this final moment with bearKat’s physical body with life departing it felt other-worldly.

Minutes later, the bills were paid, and I helped the vet lay bearKat onto the back of the truck, swaddled in what was her favorite red blanket to jump on the couch with whenever we weren’t around (other than our bed, of course). When asked how many times she has to do this sort of thing, the vet said many times a week and it’s never easy. I thanked her again for her grace and patience throughout the day.

Emily went back to pick up Avett, and I drove my mom and bearKat back to Garvin Lane. With death in our rearview mirror, my mom and I had a great heart-to-heart talk about several things in our lives that we are both working on. I attribute bearKat to opening that extraordinary conversation.

When I got home, against my instructions, my dad had already dug a gravesite for bearKat on the spot I mentioned I wanted to bury her before we left for the vet. I was instantly thankful he did. Back in the country, it was already pitch black. I could hear animals, more than likely coyotes, in the distance, and it was a good thing we didn’t waste time in the dark. I did all of the shoveling, and my dad collected some stones that we covered the dirt to serve as a barrier for the wild animals and a marker for us to come back and visit later to plant things for bearKat in the spring.

I drove home, tired but not ready to sleep in a world without bearKat. My eyes were dry from crying an empty tank, but I knew that bearKat had left us not a minute too late or too soon for us to learn what we needed to know to live without her. Like I mentioned before, the loudest change in our house since last month has been the silence from the absence of bearKat’s physical presence. I’m not saying Emily and I miss her waking up at 4 in the morning to go outside and pee, but I will say that I’ve cried a few times coming home alone and not hearing her feet patter on the floor to run and greet me.

One thing that really hit home recently was the thought that we don’t really have any pictures of bearKat in our house. I know that will change soon. When I first had that thought and looked around the house, I realized that we didn’t have a single one. It didn’t take long for me to come to a logical conclusion. We didn’t have pictures of bearKat in the house because ever since we moved into the house, she has always been here. There was never a time when we were at home and bearKat wasn’t right there beside us. There’s no need for pictures when you have the real thing. bearKat was the real thing, always was and always will be.

Over the past month, there have been times when the near 3 year-old has cried and called out for bearKat in those cries. It happened again this morning. I don’t think he was trying to pull our heartstrings and get what he wanted at that moment, like candy or ice cream. Avett has also mentioned on occasion, while pointing at the night sky with a smile, that bearKat isn’t sick anymore and is sleeping with the stars. He tells his friends and anyone who asks about bearkat that. And one other thing Avett does, when wanting to give out snacks to each of us, he’ll grab an extra bowl or plate to make sure he remembers to set out a treat for bearKat too. I am forever grateful for the kindness our son shares from his heart towards bearKat. I’m pretty sure he learned that stuff from her and how she treated him since birth.

Look, I have plenty of stories and pictures of bearKat to share, if you ever want to go down that lane with me. I’m not sure if this post was meant to show a glimpse of how special bearKat was to us or if this was just a writing exercise for me to put my emotional experience into words so that I can share the memories and feel connected with bearKat somehow deeper again. Either way, I’m thankful you read the above and feel the love that bearKat gave me and us. When everything is said and done, I’ve always felt like success in this life is measured by how much you have helped others become the best versions of themselves in small and big ways. For me, bearkat helped me be a better person than before she came into my life. I’ve heard the phrase, “Be the person your dog thinks you are.” Thanks to bearKat being in my life, I am closer to that person today than I’ve ever been before. Thanks, bear. Love you. Miss you. Sleep well in the stars tonight.