He isn't the first pet/friend I've ever lost, but his death is proving more poignant and difficult than I ever could have imagined. In part, this is related to how much I loved him, how tight our bond of friendship truly was. For twelve years he's been my constant companion, my balast on the rocky seas of life. Through all the ups and downs he's been right there by my side, his sensitivity and curiousity defter and more on pointe than many a human I happen to know. And now, without him here, I have just this empty void where there used to be love and laughter and companionship.
Even though I have two other dogs, a Border Collie who goes her own way, and a Belgian Sheepdog who is a bundle of restless energy, my Aussie was the smartest and most intuitive animal I've ever been around. I realize we always think these things about the creatures who are in our closest company, but then again, if that's true, why would I miss him so much?
I'm around dogs all the time, and I have been all my life. I always tell people that grief is the price we pay for loving, and as Thoreau said, there is no cure for loving but to love more. I console myself by saying that I spent every day with him to the fullest, being cursed with the human awareness that days are fleeting. But now that the actuality of his not being around is here, I find myself at a complete loss for the closeness we'd developed over the years.
From the moment we brought him home as a puppy, Albi and I knew we were connected. Like a best friend from childhood, we could always just "hang out" together without having to do anything in particular. He went with me everywhere: on car rides, to the store, to the beach. He was as low key and intelligent as they come, never barking unnecessarily, rarely if ever raising a fuss. He knew when I was angry and stayed clear but close. He recognized when I was sad and offered up the kinds of hugs that made the world safe, just like a parent, a lover, a friend.
We always just got each other, our personalities meshed. I like smart animals, independent sorts and the kind who don't require fuss or pampering. But at the same time, no kidding, I'm sentimental and emotional and I like people as well as animals who aren't afraid to wear their hearts on their paws.
The thing I miss most about Albi is that he wasn't dictated by doggie biology like most others who for obvious reasons will prefer a bowl of food or the scent of the postman over an idea, a mood, a whim.
People would complain that Albi was stubborn (and he was), but that's what made him so special. If I was away, he would wait outside and refuse to come in. He abandoned his food bowl to explore new sounds, or if the car alarm turned off (which meant that somebody was going for a ride). He was so damned thoughtful and persistent and moody and goofy -- I'm telling you I've known dogs my whole life, and being around him was a lot more like being with a reflective human than canines as we commonly describe them. He's completely rewritten my appreciation for the bonds we share with our four-legged friends.
The hardest aspect of all to get over is that he died of cancer, which I had wrongly never expected because we always fed him the best food we could afford, and he seemed just like a puppy right until the very end.
Right before I headed back East for a long-ago planned trip, he seemed to sense I was going away and started to sulk. On the day before I left, he rejected food -- and that made me realize there was a lot more going on merely my departure. But the vet assured me he was fine. I left with mixed feelings, to be sure -- I honestly would have canceled the whole journey had the prognosis been cancer, though I'm not sure what I would have done differently, I at least would have been with him through his swift decline.
A few days before returninging home, I received the news that he was declining rapidly. When I turned on my phone the minute we hit the tarmac at LAX, a call came in that he was holding on till we got there to say goodbye.
I raced through the airport, caught a shuttle, drove frantically through rush-hour traffic and arrived to hold him in my arms for the saddest and most excruciating 48 hours of my life. My damned dog refused to let go, no matter how much I told him I loved him and would miss him and that it was okay. Through the night, his breathing would slow and he would dream and then be still. But in the morning his head would pop up and he'd look around and my heart would split in two, wanting more time with him but wishing he would pass naturally and at home, that we wouldn't have to go through the agony of a trip to the vet and all it entailed.
He wasn't suffering as far as pain, or that would have ended it for me right there; no decision would have remained. But it was just he and I, as always, and I couldn't, I wouldn't, I didn't have the heart to end it.
On his last day, we drove to the park and stared at ducks and sky. He knew, and I knew. I couldn't stop crying, but I was determined to be strong because the only way he was going to die was in my arms, with me holding him tight.
When the moment came, in the vet's office, wrapped in his blanket and secure in my grasp, his eyes focused on mine -- the doctor nodding, me saying okay, now -- the light which made Albi so expressive and alive suddenly went out, a candle in the wind, and what was my best friend left behind the corpse of an animal that turned cold and resembled him in shape and size only, but the creature I loved was gone.
And now all those moments are memories, and the small but significant ways we connected are singular and unreflected and go unnoticed by one and all but me, who remembers and misses them. I do not lack for love. I do not want for company. When I want to play, or romp, or toss a ball and have it returned, there are ready and willing barks that stir in assent.
But Albi, he is gone, and with him, a huge chunk of me that I can't have back no matter how hard I try. It's a testament to the singularity of relationships and for that I am grateful. Not just anyone or anything -- and certainly not just any other dog -- can take his place. Thank God for that, it must be said. But it hurts. Oh, God, you bastard, it hurts.
I miss you, Albi.
