Amazing Gracie took her final breath Wednesday morning at 5:22 a.m. I know because I was right there beside her until the bittersweet end, comforting and stroking her through the night. Gracie had suffered a heart attack around 10 p.m. I knew this because she suddenly dropped to the floor and couldn’t get back up. Her muscles would no longer support her, so I carried her outside and held her up while she did her business, then brought her back in next to my chair and put her down on the most comfortable dog bed in the house.
Gracie had always been a tough little girl, a dwarf of a Norwegian Elkhound among a pack of giant German Shepherds but she ruled supreme among them. I nicknamed her the “Chupacabra” because of her fearless nature, because she would boss around our much bigger dogs. Gracie was an inspiration in more ways than one, and the subject of multiple short stories for Always a Next One. Even our Great Pyrenees gave Gracie a wide berth, barking at me until I gave him a protective escort into my office because Gracie lay by the door and prevented his entry. The big baby.
When she tried to get up, I assumed that Gracie needed water and brought a small bowl to her, so she could drink while laying down. I knew it wouldn’t be very long. We had reached the point where the only thing a vet could do would be to expedite her death, but Gracie wasn’t suffering more than minor discomfort. I knew this because she wasn’t whimpering, not even a little bit. If she’d been in any serious pain, we would not have been at home; we would have been at hte emergency vet having her euthanized. Suffering was never an option.
When I’d rescued Gracie 14 years earlier, I sang “You Are My Sunshine” to her over and over as I drove her to the vet’s office, and I sang that song over and over again as she was taking her final breaths. I wanted Gracie to know that I loved her as she transitioned to worlds as yet unknown. Several days later, my eyes still periodically fill with tears as I remember the beautiful and courageous dog from better days. I’m going to continue to miss her for a long time.
Gracie was now almost 15, roughly 105 in “dog years. Time had gradually taken its toll. Over the past year she’d grown increasingly feeble, taking fewer walks and taking her time when she would tag along to the point where I’d gotten into the habit of letting her do most of the walk off-leash, so she could walk at her own pace. She began to eat less, gradually getting to the point where she’d only eat what I fed her by hand, the good stuff that normally goes on top of the kibble. Virtually deaf and blind, she mostly followed me around the house and lay near me.
Every day was a blessing. We finally ran out of blessings.
When she passed, Gracie turned her head and simply stopped breathing. Her poor little body had simply given all that she had to give, and the light left her eyes. I continued to sit with her and stroke her, reluctant to say goodbye. But she was gone. For almost an hour I sat next to her and hoped to see her take one last breath, to no avail. As soon as they opened, I took her body to the vet and expect her cremains back next week. I said my final goodbye and left her body in their capable care.
For the past several days, I’ve seen ghosts lying where Gracie used to sleep. I’ve caught myself taking an extra step to avoid stepping on a dog that is no longer there. Out of habit I’ve almost filled her bowl, or gotten that extra treat out of the container before realizing there is one fewer mouth to feed. Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still see Gracie running in the backyard, her tail wagging furiously as she chases a chipmunk.
Her memory now haunts me, but in an almost pleasant, wistful way. My baby is no longer suffering from the ravages of old age. She’s gone, and many would say death was her final destination. However, I do not believe that, not even for a moment.
There is evidence — scientific evidence — that mind and brain are separable entities. The brain is physical, but the mind is metaphysical. When we die our physical brain begins to decay, but our spiritual mind continues to exist in some other capacity. Gracie may no longer be physically here, but she’s forever going to remain a part of me.
Eventually her dish will be put away and I’ll stop stepping out of my way to avoid her phantom presence, but that beloved little dog will remain alive in my memories until the day that I die. And on that glorious final day, I fully expect to be reunited with Gracie, and Sheba, Ox, Wyatt, Shiloh, Sasha, and other members of my pack who have preceded her in death.
I believe that God exists, and the spirit, or soul exists. I believe God created both humans and dogs, each for a different reason. I believe that when I die my soul will continue to exist, and my soul would be infinitely happier with Gracie than without. She will always be my Sunshine. You don’t have to believe what I believe, but you’re wasting your time trying to convince me not to believe what I believe. Not only do I want to believe it, I have the advantage of knowing my belief is more than likely true.
The body dies. The spirit never dies.
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