Bedside vigil for Gaia. . .

Sleeping in the snow. Feb. 28, 2012

My big old doggie, Gaia, isn't doing so well. Well, whadda ya expect, she's 14 and a half, Jen. I mean, c'mon! That's about 98 years in human years—yea, well, not to get technical on y'all, but it's more than 98 years, because that "take a dog's age times seven" bullshit is way off. She's well over a 100, according to the professionals, based on breed, size, weight, and blah, blah, blah . . . as if any of that matters. One year or 14, they're all the same, in dog years, to me. 14 and a half years is still far too short, in my opinion . . . why can't dogs be like horses and live a good 30 years. Or better yet, an elephant? 70 good, long years. . . and a damn good chance Gaia would outlive me, if she were an elephant. . .when you think about it too long, you realize why it's probably not a good idea . . . there are enough old, abandoned dogs in shelters with things as they are, without adding to the problem. . .

Cousins Miya and Katie, with Gaia, February 2005

My big, sweet girl. . . she's had a good, long run at life, a pretty cushy life, really, for a dog. No, make that for any living creature. If there's one thing I can say for certain, its that we treated our dogs as one of the family. As anyone who has a dog, or cat or salamander or ant farm or whatever, should. If all we do is simply take care of one another, animals included, how wonderful, wonderful, wonderful the world could be . . .

Still, kinda catches me off guard, to see our "first born's" life slowly coming to an end . . . at least I'm pretty certain that's what's going on. It's been an ancient glacial decline over the past maybe 5 years or so, nearly imperceptible. But, Big GG's overall condition has taken a remarkable nosedive over the weekend—she's stopped eating, has been throwing up intermittently—foul, greenish bile, accompanied by what sounds like Beelzebub residing in her throat—is so weak, she can barely stand. . . had our vet come out yesterday, and while examining the ol' girl, found what feels like a large tumor in Gaia's abdomen, just below her ribcage. She weighed Gaia. 81 pounds. I don't think Gaia's weighed 81 pounds since she was 8 months old. . . what was normally a barrel-ish figure is now a startling hour-glass. . . I don't think I've ever seen what could be described as a "waist" on Gaia. In another word, emaciated. Things are not good. . .

But, typical Gaia, she doesn't complain. Other than the occasional vomiting, she doesn't appear to be uncomfortable, just incredibly lethargic and perhaps a little disoriented. For the past several days, she has mostly been sleeping, so soundly, in fact, I can hardly rouse her . . . flashbacks . . . If I could be so bold as to speak for her, I'd say she's preparing to slip away quietly, sometime soon . . . at least I hope that's how it plays out, though I'm no longer so naive as to think the world works on my tears and hopes and prayers and demands . . . it'll happen however it'll happen—perhaps quiet and peacefully . . . but it could just as easily end in a violent upsurge. I like to think I have at least a little experience under my belt, concerning this death and dying stuff and am prepared for either . . . we'll see . . .

Gaia was our firstborn. When Bob and I bought our first house in Roseville, the first "big ticket item" wasn't new furniture. Wasn't new appliances or curtains or even paint. It was Gaia. She was born on December 19, 1997, and was about ten weeks old when we brought her home from the Alaskan malamute breeder in Rochester. Their four year old daughter had christened her Pearl. Who the hell names a dog Pearl? Unless it's a useless lap dog (no offense to useless lap dog owners out there! ;) As we were leaving, this little girl looked up at me with big blue eyes fringed in thick dark lashes and asked if we were going to keep that name she had picked out for our new doggie. "Of course we are, sweetie," I smiled at her. As soon as we were safely ensconced in the back seat of the car, I held our sweet bundle of joy's furry face in my hands, stared deep into into her eyes and began chanting, "Gaia, Gaia, Gaia, Gaia. . ." There's a special room in Hell for people just like me.

Anyone who has ever met Gaia falls in love with her, even many self-professed "I'm not a dog person!" persons. She's lovable. She's a clown. She can't stand it if you dis her—she will saunter up to you, she will drive her head between your legs and she will make you acknowledge her. We took her on all of our camping trips, she was such a good traveler. She quickly learned the "signs" of a road trip—the packing of suitcases, the gathering of camping gear, the blankets that went down on the car seats, for the dogs to lie on. She'd walk right up to the Jeep and stand next to it, patiently waiting till Bob or I opened the tail gate to let her jump in. It's only been in the past few years that she's been unable to make that jump, and has needed hoisting by her humans. But she still views car rides with the same excitement. Just this past weekend, I decided to head down to southern MN, to visit my family, Bob's parents, and debated taking the dogs. I've noticed Gaia's energy level waning, have seen "the signs." But as I started packing up the Jeep, she slowly lumbered to the end of the sidewalk, as far as her tie-out would allow, patiently waiting till I was done loading up the Jeep and it was her turn to get in. That sealed the deal.

When I first arrived in St. Peter, my brother Kurt helped me get my ol' girlie out from the back of the Jeep. We gently let her down onto the brown, crusty grass of the boulevard and her legs collapsed beneath her, she struggled to stand and just couldn't muster the strength . . . Kurt and I half-carried her to his back yard, where we set up camp for her—tie-out, bowl of water, thick doggy bed to lie on . . . I did take her on a short walk that evening, and the next morning, a very slow, meandering walk, with countless sniffing-stops along the way. But she didn't eat at all, either meal. Believe me when I say that if a Malamute doesn't eat, you know something is direly wrong . . .

On Saturday, we headed to Penny and Jim's. Same thing. Big ol' girl crashed in the backyard, didn't eat. This time, a walk wasn't even appealing, despite Rocco's coaxing, she just raised her head, stared at him a few moments, then dropped it back down again. He ran around her, barking encouragement to her; eventually (maybe more to shut Rocco the hell up), she did manage to get upright and took a slow walk around the back yard with us, taking great care to sniff every bush and tree within the parameters of their property, but she was easily coaxed back to her doggie bed under the deck when we had made the back yard whip.

We got home late Sunday afternoon and things have gone steadily downhill since. I am worried. Worried that she is suffering. Outwardly, she appears not to be. She appears comfortable, accommodating, ready. If only I could say the same about me. I will mix up a gin and tonic, continue to  pop outside and check on her, sit by her side, give her a massage on her "forearms," as she has loved since the day we brought her home, whisper in her ear how much I love her, how much joy and happiness she has brought to our lives, how grateful I am that she scared all the burglars away at our temporary St. Paul digs, how Bob and Liddy are waiting for her . . .

I need to go now, I hear her softly howling . ..