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I’m playing with Darby in the backyard, throwing one of his many tennis balls.  Playing might be a bit too strong a word, because Darby is somewhere between 16-17 years old and in dog years, that’s upper senior citizen-ish, like near 100.  

He moves better than most 100 year old people I know, but not much.  The sight of his beloved ball rolling a few feet from him makes him perk up, dip his head to get a sort of running start, and gallop the 3-4 feet to the ball.  

Over to our left is his grave, freshly dug.  About a month ago he seemed like he was at the end, so much so that I had scheduled the vet appointment that all animal lovers dread.  My husband had seen when our last dog Ginger had died, that the insult of digging her grave in a monsoon-like rain added to the injury of just having lost her.  So in his quiet, sensitive way, he had dug a deep hole in front of Ginger’s grave to ease the pain of burying Darby.  

But that was a month ago, because in true Darby fashion, and for at least the seventh time, he rallied and I canceled the appointment.  I knew I would be back to making another appointment soon enough.  

But how do you decide when it is “time”?  Conventional wisdom is when the pet is not eating or drinking, is unable to move, or is in pain.  And in every case up to this point (and I’ve had a lot of dogs), the path and time have eventually been clear.  Emily, my first dog as an adult, died overnight after I had prayed over her sick body, told her goodbye, and said that I was okay with her leaving me.  It was a beautiful, life-affirming process.

My other dogs like Jewel, Kringle, and Zach were in a lot of pain and didn’t need to suffer anymore, so I made the appointment.  It was hard but yet so clear.

Ginger’s death was tough.  Though old, she had been fine and rolling right along until she suddenly had a brain bleed.  The vets at NC State did all they could, but in the end, I had to make the decision to let her go.  To my horror, she did not go as easily as every other dog had as the vet injected the death medicine.  The vet said sometimes that happens.  But the way she cried out in pain and looked at me for help was almost more than I could bear.  I still don’t like to think about it, though that was three years past.

Time goes so fast with these dear ones.  You know the day will come in less than a 20 year period when you will say goodbye, but that doesn’t stop you from having more.  My two new pups, Augie and Daisy, are both less than two years old, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I will always have dogs, knowing that with all of them, I will say goodbye down the road.

And thus I am there with  Darby.

Sixteen years ago this month he came to me via Atlanta where my Aunt Carol found him roaming the streets.  With no owner being found, and my Emily being about 13 at the time, I brought him to my home in Nashville, Tennessee.  Since then, he has lived in Asheville at my parents house, in two different houses in Concord, NC, and four different places in Durham/Chapel Hill.  He has  comforted me in my singleness, walked with me into my marriage, and has been a stability for me through the greatest transitions of my life.  

But it was that night, when he was the Dog in the Room, that makes it so hard for me to say goodbye.  That night in my mother’s room at Hospice, where it was just her and me and him,  as she was breathing her last breaths.  Darby stood vigil in the room, a comforting presence.   

Here we are 12 years later.  He’s still eating and drinking, but he’s having trouble walking.  His dementia makes him bark, sometimes, shriek in the middle of the night, several times a night and I am losing 2-3 hours of sleep a night.  I’m exhausted.  On the pain meter, I just can’t tell how much pain he is in. He seems anxious and confused, but then he’ll go outside and play with that damn tennis ball, romp a little, and be joyful.  This makes me anxious and confused too.

Is it time?  Is he ready?  Am I ready?  Why isn’t it clearer, like with my other dogs?  Why do I feel like if I make the appointment now, it will be out of convenience for me and my sleep?  Sure I need my sleep, but remember, he is the Dog in the Room, and saying goodbye to him means saying goodbye to the only other being in the world that was in the room with my mother and me on her last night.  Her last night.  That holy, holy, holy night.  How can I do this, when it is not clear, when it might be more for my convenience ?  What happens afterwards,  when I am alone to remember that night, when I cannot look at Darby and unspoken, say, “Remember?  You were there, boy.  Thank you for being there with me, boy”?

I don’t know.  I don’t know what happens.  Next or then or now.  But I know it will come and probably soon, and that I will experience pain and sorrow again, and not just of his passing, but of my mother’s.  But I will be the Girl in the Room with him when it is his time, holding vigil and being a comforting presence in his passing,  just as he was with my mother.  And, like all things dear in life, I will let him go.