When we brought our baby home from the hospital, 14-year-old Bhoga welcomed him by sniffing and licking him before she lay down on her bed suffering from arthritis. Her ears would stand erect to compensate for her increasing deafness, and while walking, when she came near cracks in the sidewalk, she would often jump extravagantly over them. We wondered what, exactly, she could still see. Strangers would come up to him to pet him, inspired by his sweet sugar face and slow persistence, and perhaps by memories of the old dogs they themselves had lost.
A dozen times a day we would help her up from the floor where she had fallen, grateful for all she had given us, who was basically our family. I would often and unexpectedly have tears in my eyes while washing dishes or folding clothes, knowing we were so close to letting him go. Those old feelings of abandonment came back. I didn’t want to do that to him, knowing that he had a fear – common in dogs – of being left behind.
When we took the decision, we were lucky that a veterinarian came to our house and gave medicines to Bhoga through IV while we sat with him in the sun near the wood stove. She slipped into our arms, probably the best position, but every bit as painful as I imagined.
The saving grace was that tributes poured in from countless people who knew Bhog; His narcissistic presence touched them all. Compared to other losses I’ve endured, the support of friends and family in losing the dog felt unconditional. In the past, sentiments over lost love were always laden with blame, as if I could have chosen more wisely, or behaved better.
Ironically, while suing my ex-husband for custody of Bhoga, I couldn’t have behaved worse – at least as far as my ex was concerned. I learned that in love, selfishness can be just as important as selflessness, knowing what you want and sticking to it – even if sometimes it means hurting someone else. In fostering that dog, I was assuring my most secure relationship, one that allowed me to love myself and, over time, others.