(So sick – Two days before I said goodbye)
I write this from Starkville, Mississippi – home of Mississippi State University and the MSU Veterinary School. I have been out of touch for the last couple of weeks because Olive’s medical condition took a turn for the worse. Yesterday, May 24, 2016, I euthanized her due to profound, unidentified infection and inflammation, leading to septicemia. I am heartbroken.
Two weeks ago, while in Baton Rouge, Olive refused to eat, and she was wobbly when she walked. We spent six days at LSU at its veterinary school, but they could not identify the source of her malaise. She started spiking fevers and continued to refuse food. Sobbing, I packed up the RV, hitched up the car, and drove over five hours at 75 miles per hour from Baton Rouge to Starkville. We arrived on a Sunday night, where Olive was admitted to the ICU. I breathed a sigh of relief, took a shower, and was full of hope for a complete recovery. Nine days later, she was gone.
I have always been a woman of science rather than faith. If anything, I put my faith in science. Having worked with medical professionals for over a decade, I have a basic understanding of medical issues, and I was convinced there would be a curative treatment for whatever infection had taken hold of Olive. I was certain that we need only find the culprit to administer the cure. Despite abdominal ultrasound, MRI, x-rays, fine needle aspirations of the spleen, liver, and bone marrow, four types of antibiotics, spinal tap, and countless blood tests for bacteria, fungus, protozoa and viruses, we could not save her.
And I so wanted to save her, because she saved me. In 2012, after living my adult life with only cats as pets, I wanted a lifestyle that supported having a dog. I had been a trial lawyer for most of my working life. I wanted to come home at a decent hour. I wanted to go for walks and get outdoors. Looking back now, I realize that adopting Olive was the genesis of my major life change in 2015.
I will never forget meeting her for the first time at her foster parents’ home. She ran up to me, barking but tail wagging, and jumped in my lap as I sat down on the patio chair. Her foster mom was in shock; Olive never jumped in laps, ever. The next day, I got a car seat so she could see out the window and not fly around in the car when we turned corners. It took her four jumps, without any direction from me, from the sidewalk to the floorboard to the driver’s seat to the center console to her seat. She laid down, rested her head on the edge of carrier, and stared up at me lovingly. That became her routine. The most assertive she ever got was when I petted her while driving. If I stopped petting and rested my hand on the side of the carrier, she nuzzled her head under my hand, urging me to continue.
On our first night sleeping together, Olive immediately laid on a pillow. I did not want my pillows to be covered in dog hair or smell like dog, so I did not allow it. Over the years, every once in a while she would try for a pillow, seeing if I had changed my mind. After Olive slept over at my friend Denise’s on the night of the over-stimulation-for-a-dog summer party at my house, Denise said, “It was the cutest thing – she slept on the pillows on the bed!” Sneaky little thing.
One month after we met, I had emergency neurosurgery on my neck, and Olive was a great source of comfort and companionship during the six-week recovery. We laid on the sofa together, binge-watching “Alias” and going in and out of consciousness. She hated it when I went back to work, hanging her head low and walking soooo slowly when I called her to come to the area cordoned off by a baby gate. I am infinitely thankful that she and I were together almost constantly for the last 14 months, after I quit my job and hit the open road. She wanted nothing more in the world than to be with me, and I felt exactly the same way about her.
There are so many things about her I’m afraid I will forget, so I’m going to write them down here. In the beginning, when she sat on my lap on her hind legs, facing me, she would fall backwards in a game of trust, waiting for me to catch her. Sitting around a campfire one night, she did it repeatedly, to the amusement of my friends. Two months later, she stopped. I must have passed her test.
She was incredibly smart. All the commands and tricks she knew were learned in less than one day. She had an amazing sense of balance; she could stand perfectly still on her hind legs forever for a treat, which she did on my command, “Circus Doggie.” After a walk, especially in rainy Seattle, she laid down in the hallway and rolled over, exposing her legs and belly and paws so I could wipe them. In the last few months, even though I could tell it was painful for her and did not command her to do it, she continued. She just wanted to please me.
Every little noise, especially sudden ones, scared her, but she rested comfortably during thunderstorms and fireworks. When she was excited she jumped on her hind legs and made this happy growling noise, nipping at your pant legs. She loved the rough-feeling carpet at my law office, lying on her back and scratching back-and-forth, her body contorting into alternating mirror S shapes, grunting merrily. She loved eating cat poop, her little Kitty Rocas as I called them; if she found one on a walk she would stand there chewing slowly, so self-satisfied, knowing I would be too disgusted to pry it out of her mouth. On the few occasions in the park when she ran with other dogs or chased a squirrel, she reminded me of Pepe le Pew, bouncing up-and-down on her short little legs.
Each morning she repeatedly ran to the edge of the bed, then back to me, pouncing on my arm and shoulder and happy growling for me to get up. If she trusted you, her favorite thing in the world was to lie her back, expose her belly, and get tummy rubs. It took her a long time to trust; I said that Olive followed The Rule of 40. After she met you 40 times, you were her best friend. Over time, a handful of friends became her people too. When she heard their voices she whined in happy anticipation to greet them. On our walks around the neighborhood, no less than 10 neighbors doled out head scratches and tummy rubs and treats to her. She knew the route so well and was so good at waiting at curbs, I walked her without a leash, getting two tickets from Animal Control in the process! I didn’t mind, because our neighborhood walks made her confident. She would get so bouncy and perky at times, I nicknamed her “Princess Prancy Pants.”
Olive taught me a lot about resilience and trust. Despite all the awful things that happened to her before we found each other, she trusted me. She let me clip her nails, bathe and groom her, and give her medicine. It was only at the very end, when picking her up to take her outside the rig, she nipped at me to protect herself. I knew then how sick she was and how much pain she was in.
I don’t know how or why it started, but sometimes in bed at night I would sing a little song to Miss Olive – Lerner & Lowe’s “On The Street Where You Live,” from “My Fair Lady.” After a few renditions over time, she wagged her tail when I sang.
I have often walked
Down the street before,
But the pavement always
Stayed beneath my feet before.
All at once am I
Several stories high,
Knowing I’m on the street where you live.
Are there lilac trees
In the heart of town?
Can you hear a lark in any other part of town?
Does enchantment pour
Out of every door?
No, it’s just on the street where you live.
And oh, the towering feeling
Just to know somehow you are near
The overpowering feeling
That any second you may suddenly appear.
People stop and stare
They don’t bother me,
For there’s no where else on earth
That I would rather be.
Let the time go by,
I won’t care if I
Can be here on the street where you live.
I sang the song to her yesterday as she lay wrapped in a blanket on a sofa in the visitation room. She mustered a couple of small tail wags, even though she could barely lift her head and her respirations were swift and shallow. As the sedative entered her bloodstream I told her it was time to go for a ride in the car and go home. She looked up to me, relieved. Her pupils then grew as wide as the margins of her eyes, she shuddered once and exhaled, and she was gone.
No more pain, Baby Girl. I love you.
This Post Has 43 Comments
I am crying.
Tammy, I’m so sorry to hear about Olive. As a dog lover, I found myself tearing-eyed reading your post. No question you did everything possible for her and in the end she just needed to be out of pain. As communicative as pets are, there are times you just wish they could tell you where it hurts.
Take care of yourself and keep the happy lovely memories at the forefront of your thoughts, not the last few days. I’ll keep good thoughts for you too.
Oh, Tammy 🙁 We’re so sorry to read this about Olive. Sending big hugs from Ballard.
Tammy this is absolutely beautiful!! You have a gift for words. I cried through the whole thing and I know exactly how you are feeling. You say you have faith in medicine only, but I have faith in God and ask Him to comfort you in the hours and days to come!
I sure hope to see you!
A beautiful tribute to your dear friend. May we always live up to the love our pets have for us.
So sorry to read about Olive – I know your heart is broken at this sad time. I’m sure Olive knew how much you loved her and how you did all you could for her. She is at peace now and would want you to be too. She will always be with you in spirit.
What a beautiful tribute to your friend. She knew you loved her to her last breath.
It is the worst when you lose your best friend. I have unfortunately been through it too. Hang in there. Time does help
Omg, omg, omg—I am so, so sorry this has happened and what you have been dealing with.Sending much love and giant hugs of care, empathy and courage.. I am so, so sorry.
I am profoundly sorry for your loss. I am so glad you were such a blessing to each other.
XO
Well, Tammy, way to clean out my tear ducts in the middle of the afternoon. I am a lifelong dog lover and and I am very happy for you that you became one later in life and got to experience the love and loyalty of Olive. I know I would have loved her, too. I certainly love how she looked. I am looking at my old man whippet, also a rescue, who is skin and bones and must be 13, since I’ve had him 11 years and I was his third home. I am just hoping he will die in his bed. I have to cook him chicken, livers and rice to get him to eat, and he is still so so skinny. But he enjoys a trot round the block and can get sassy with my big young pit, Ripley; she is the one I worry over when he goes, because she LOVES him so much. I am so very sorry Olive died; I know you are a changed and better person for knowing and caring for her.
I have been there.
There are no words.
I am so sorry.
I am crying, what a beautiful tribute to Olive. I am so sorry for your loss but grateful she is out of pain. These little fur babies are angels of the earth. Thank you for sharing your story and all the wonderful moments that you had. It is truly not fair that they cannot be with us longer. They teach us so much. RIP.
Tammy, I am so sorry! She was a very sweet girl! Take care!
I am so sorry for your loss. My girl is getting old and I am terrified of that day that will inevitably come. I hope for you that the good memories outweigh the pain, if not today than someday soon.
I know exactly how you feel. Heartbroken. I lost my Sadie Suzanne and I will never get over it although it’s been 3 years. Take care my friend, sending you comfort and a hug. Thank you for sharing. Thank you for giving Olive a happy life.
Thank you for sharing. I know it wasn’t easy. You showed that baby what love was and she left this world happy. She may have never known that had you not opened your heart and home to her. I know you will get tired of hearing it will get easier in time, but take it from someone who has loved a chihuahua for 16 years and had to let him go. I still have his mate that is 17 1/2 but when she is gone that is the end of my originals. It’s just heart breaking you had to go through this. I know you said you believe in science more than faith but I will say a prayer that God will fill the void in your life and heal your pain. Hang in there.
I’m so sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry for your loss. But what a wonderful time you gave her. And us, by sharing this.
I just started following your blog through Retro Renovation, and I was not expecting to be moved to tears by a total stranger. You are a gifted writer, even in the face of deep sadness. Pets give us unconditional love, loyalty and trust. And our gift to them in return is to put their needs first when it is time to say goodbye. How lucky you are to have had each other. I’m very sorry for your loss.
So sorry about Olive. I’m so glad you were with her and she knew you loved her.
What a beautiful tribute Tammy! You will never forget her. She lives in your heart forever. What a gift.
My heart should be broken, but instead I find it peaceful and full of admiration for your loyalty to Miss Olive and for everyone who loves their dogs as you do. I hope for an easy recovery of the grief for you so that you can live everyday in the joy of love for God’s creatures.
My deepest sympathies to you. Only a few of us have had a dog like Olive, who became our most loved companion. A special friend like her does not come along often. I lost my beloved bulldog 2.5 years ago who was my animal soulmate. Funny thing is, his spirit still visits me at times when I am looking for him, and sometimes when I am not. I wish you comfort and peace in this time of mourning.
Tammy,
Words can’t begin to express how sorry I am for you. No one can understand the heartbreak unless you’ve lost a pet you love. They are our family, our child and our best friend. I went through it many years ago and swore I’d never get this attached again, nope one heartbreak was enough. Now our Chloe Rose, our daughter dog, is eleven and recently diagnosed with heart disease and I know I have to face it once again.
I’m so very sorry for you, and sorry I never got to meet Olive in person, although you brought both her and Boss Tweed into our lives.
Nancy S
You absolutely did all you could and I hope you find some comfort knowing that. I believe Olive knew too that all were trying to help. This is one of the hardest things to go through. So glad you took the time to write your remembrances of live with Olive. Very important. And Olive will continue to be in your heart and sneak in to your thoughts – her very own private “pillow” place 😉 Take good care of yourself too.
Such a loving tribute to your sweet lil Olive. She was a treasure to us all, to have met Olive- was to love Olive. Our hearts break for you. We know how deeply you loved and cared for her and just what she meant to you and how she helped with the changes in your life, the stability she made you feel, but most of all, the love an acceptance she wrapped up in a shiny bow and gifted you, from the moment you two laid eyes on each other. I’ll never forget, watching her lil trust game in your lap. So flippin sweet! She was the perfect cuddle bunny and an amazing friend. Me n Lance are so very sorry for your loss. We love and miss you and are thinking of you. Wishing for your broken heart to heal in due time. What a magical lil creature she was, what a joy to have had her, for as long as you did. Hugs, T&L
I am so sorry to hear about Olive. She was a wonderful companion and co pilot on your motor home adventures. I am glad I got to meet her in Oklahoma. May she be in your memories forever.
Take care, Ed
Tammy, Gerry and I are so sorry for your loss. Olive was lovely. We both knew how much she meant to you and you to Olive. I cant believe it’s been one year this week that you were up here in Canada with us. Take care, we miss you, Susan
I’m so sorry. When our fur babies leave us, they take a piece of our hearts. Take care of yourself. ❤️
I’m so sorry. There are really no words of comfort when you lose your best furry friend.
I lost my Sydney 10 years ago. She was with me through marriage and divorce and making a new life for myself. When she died in my arms at the emergency vet, it hurt more than my divorce – unlike my ex, she had loved me unconditionally and I, her.
Every once in a while, I pull out a seldom used wool blanket or my old wool pea coat and discover, despite cleanings, a few of her hairs still clinging there. And I have to take a moment to grieve, to remember, and finally to smile – because my life was better because she was part of it.
It was a while before I was up to having another dog. I do have one now and I’m going to go give her a belly rub!
Ugh, I can barley breath myself.
I am so sorry for your loss.
Beautiful tribute Tammy – I’m sure Olive is wagging her tail in dog heaven as she shares your words with her new friends there – you both found what you needed in each other – can there be any better blessing? Thanks for sharing your heart with us!
Tammy, I am so sorry for your loss. Olive was a wonderful dog person. Remember she’ll be waiting for you when you cross over the Rainbow Bridge.
Lump in my throat, I know the feeling when saying goodbye to a four legged friend. Be safe
I’m so sorry Tammy. Its very hard to lose a pet
ohhh Tammy, big hug. Loosing a pet is such a difficult thing, they sure nestle into our hearts don’t they. Words seem so inadequate at times like this.
Broke down crying when I started to read about your dear sweet Olive. We had to put down our beloved dog October of last year. I am still recovering, I miss her so much. I couldn’t finish reading your entry after the first few sentences. I know what you are going through and how much our pets (especially dogs) mean to us, especially for women (like me) who do not have children. My husband and I refer to our pets as our kids, and that is how I feel about them. My heart goes out to you. After you grieve for a bit, I encourage you to get another dog. Your new doggie will help fill that empty hole in your heart, Olive can never be replaced but there is another dog out there that needs you too.
OMG, trying to type through the tears. I have no words that seem worthy at the moment so will just send you a big hug.
I too, was crying reading your post. As a matter of fact, I had to wait a few days before commenting, because I want to get the words right. We have lost a few dogs and cats as well over the years and it is never easy. After losing our dog several years ago and already adopted and lost a few cats, we decided to finally get another dog. We had rescued a Lynx-Point Siamese mixed cat about six years ago, but there was still a void. So, three and a half years ago, I forced my husband to take me (and sometimes the kids) in and out of the rescue shelters for six months before we found just the right dog. He or she had to be just the right fit and the all of the shelter workers agreed. I did not want to just take one home for the sake of doing it. After all, I was bringing in a new family member and I wanted it to be permanent. We had certain criteria that had to be met.
1. Had to be good with kids.
2. Not a barker, nipper, or biter.
3. Had to be good with cats. (Mrs. Fluffypants would have it no other way)
4. Had to fit in a handbag. (Even though he is usually carried or in his stroller)
5. And most importantly, had to like to be held like a baby.
The first dog we looked at was named P.J. And I don’t know what the J stood for, but we know what the P was for, because he PEED on everything! Nope, not him. We looked at so many others that did not even seem interested in us, go figure. Anyway, the local SPCA was having a special where all students were granted free adoptions. This HAD to be the right timing, I was feeling doggie void like a chocolate withdrawal. We went in and my son wanted to look at a Shih Tzu with a really bad underbite named Jazz. I had seen this little chocolate brown Chihuahua with a mask marking on his face like a little monkey. He was soooo quiet with his little paw resting on the gate of his kennel and that sweet mild “take me home, I’m a good boy” look on his little face. But my son wanted to look at Jazz. We took Jazz out and as soon as we got to the outside to test him out, he started flipping out and wanting to attack us. Well, not him either. We went back to the little Chihuahua and tried him out in one of the rooms. He walked around and then got close to me. I picked him up and put him in my lap where he rested quietly. I held him like a baby and he seemed totally content. His little ribs were showing because he was a stray running around for who knows how long. Yes, this was the PERFECT dog. Needless to say, we adopted him. As a matter of fact, he was that SPCA’s quickest adoption. He was there for only two hours. They had not even had time to put his paperwork on the kennel. (He was pulled from a kill shelter which many of our local shelters and rescues pull from as often as they can. We checked there often as well.) Needless to say, he has been the source of great joy, love and happiness to all of our family. His address is “Under my feet, on my lap, or in my arms”, LOL. His name is Tinkie because when we first got him, I could not give him a bath because of his stitches from being neutered and he was tiny and stinky, hence, Tinkie.
I know my comment is really long, but I wanted to share this with you because one of my sons asked me what I was going to do when Tinkie eventually passes. I let him know that I would be extremely devastated, but I would soon get another dog, not to replace Tinkie because that would be impossible, but because I wanted to save another dog to love so more room would be available at the shelter. My logic seemed to make sense to him. I agree with Annie, let yourself grieve and allow another dog to love you too. I always say that this world would be a much better place if everyone could love a doggie.
I am so so sorry.
I am so sorry for your loss. My heart aches for you. We lost our fur baby a few months ago and our hearts are still heavy.
I’ve been away from your blog for a little while and am profoundly saddened to learn that Olive — the dearest pooch ever — has passed. You gave her such wonderful years — and she, you. I hope you’ll adopt another soon, for there are legions of dogs needing homes, and living with you in Nellie is wonderful.
As a veteran animal person with a houseful of rescued dogs all my life, I want to share a poem that inspires me, and I always quote some lines from it into the ear of my beloved pets when euthanasia is the only loving choice. And often, it is. These words, sent to you with love:
Walk Slowly by Adelaide Love
If you should go before me, dear, walk slowly
Down the ways of death, well-worn and wide,
For I would want to overtake you quickly
And seek the journey’s ending by your side.
I would be so forlorn not to descry you
Down some shining highroad when I came;
Walk slowly, dear, and often look behind you
And pause to hear if someone calls your name.