Goodbye Banchi

The jingle of the keys no longer results in furry black ears perking up in anticipation of a walk. The toenails clicking on the hardwood floors last night were only remnants of dreams. The food and water bowls are in the dishwasher for the last time. My day, normally punctuated by the care of an additional family member is strangely, sadly...empty; the result is disorienting sadness and a surprisingly heavy heart.
I miss my dog so much, already. I miss the way he made me feel safe. I miss having to step over him (why did he always manage to lie right where I was walking next?) I miss petting his soft head and the way he looked at me. I miss his howl. I miss so much making time to get into Central Park three times a day, no matter what was going on or how busy I was. I can't believe how much more work it is to clean up under the high chair without him doing his best first.
I think the decision to have him put to sleep was the right thing to do--he was slowly suffocating. The lumps and tumors were persistent and aggressive and they were affecting his ability to walk, to breathe, to be comfortable at all. It changed in the last couple of days--instead of being just sick, he was agitated--looking at us imploringly as if to ask us to make it stop, to relieve his discomfort. He stopped eating again. This dog was stoic, so I know that he was starting to be in pain or at the very least feeling rotten sick all hours of the day and night.
I was trying to figure out how to get the rest of our family on board to say Saturday was the day--that we could walk across Central Park together and take him to the shelter--but Brett got home Wednesday and said he couldn't stand watching him try to breathe and we decided it was time. So he took him out on a beautiful sunny day that smelled like spring. He took treats and a tennis ball and a bag of food and treated him to tidbits all the way across the park. His last bites were of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Even on this last walk people stopped him to say what a beautiful dog he is...
So he called me when he was in front of the shelter, an hour and a half later--they had to take a lot of rest breaks. Are you sure?
Ummmm, no. Is anyone ever sure?
They took off his collar and dropped it on the floor, replaced it with a rope. He could barely get up after such a walk, and Brett wasn't permitted to go in with him. What does it smell like--impending death? I can't believe we do this, but it seems better than the sound of his struggling to breathe that was invading my dreams and weighing on my shoulders like a stone. This was how he came into our lives too, more than 10 years ago, from a shelter. Surrounded by concrete floors and chain link fencing and dogs full of fear. He tilted his head to the side when we talked to him like he was trying so hard to understand. His head was so soft and we thought he was beautiful and sweet.
So now?
We grieve.
We think of all we did wrong, and maybe try to steer our thoughts to what we did right, like the fun trips we had together, the walks and the time in the park. We think of all the times that having a dog brought us joy and laughter and companionship. We think of how glad we are that our kids have had a pet. We think of the lessons he taught us--some of them painful (but necessary). I wrote about him almost two years ago here. I didn't take recent photos because it made me too sad--his shape was changed, sagging and wilted, his eyes cloudy and dispirited.
So goodbye our four-legged friend. We will truly miss you. Your painful ordeal is over and there are paw prints on our hearts forever.