Chasing Fireflies

“And again, a few minutes later, a whisper to himself under the sky’s collapsing cobalt: Look the color! There are colors in his spectrum that no one else can see”

- Richard Powers

I opened the door that summer evening looking for Flash, my basset hound. He didn’t come in as usual with Charlie, our other dog. I looked out across the lawn as it sloped way from the porch. There, in the fading blue light of dusk he was rolling in the freshly mowed grass. There was a cloud of fireflies flitting about him. He poked his head up when I called in a puppy like manner despite his advanced years. Then he started to run towards the house in that peculiar slow motion, sew-saw manner unique to Basset Hounds, ears flopping beside him. It was a moment of joy.

Flash died this morning.

After 13 plus years, his little legs gave out and he seems to have had a stroke. He had been declining for several weeks. This morning he fell getting off his pillow and his head was tilted abnormally like he was now blind in one eye. He had trouble standing. He looked at me through his good eye and seemed to say, "I am ready now". Then he laid down and didn't get back up.

By every reasonable and objective measure he was not a good dog. He did no tricks and was rarely obedient. He was stubborn to the point of exasperation. He was often fearful of other dogs and would be aggressive out of anxiety. He shed relentlessly and despite repeated baths, generally had a musky odor of an old shoe that would never go away. He hated to go in cars anywhere and would often be incontinent at the worst possible times. He viewed trimming his nails as a sexual assault and would fight your efforts as if his life was dependent on it. He had this annoying habit of standing with his front feet on the lawn and his tail end on the sidewalk. Somehow he felt that he had gone far enough on the grass and would poop at that spot leaving a prodigious landmine on the walk way. To get him to do anything, you often had to bribe him with a treat.

No. He was not a good dog.

Still, he was mine and, especially as he got older , I loved him.

Death is never like we all imagine. We like to think we will lay down one day, our life's goals complete, with our loved ones beside us, and simply close our eyes and travel across the river. It's not like that at all. It is often messy and prolonged. I have been present at the death of many patients over my career. I have watched and participated as the medical team desperately tries to bring the patient back into the world in the violent act of "The Code". Unlike television, it fails in real life more than 70% of the time. It never goes as planned.

Loved ones wonder what to do as their family member lingers. There is nothing to do. There are no correct words to say. I have found that people fear most about dying is not the unknown. It is dying alone. You want to be witnessed as you get on the boat with Frodo and the others to sail to the green lands. You want to say goodbye. I think the same is true with pets.

So I spent Flash's last hour simply sitting beside him. I had nothing to offer other than saying, "I see you." I witness you. As you pass in this room so familiar to you, you will go to sleep with familiar smells, morning light, and the birds calling outside. I am here and will be through the end.

The last morning

When you are a father, there is a precious time when your kids are young and they are so happy to see you. You would come home after a long day at work and as you walked in they would race to the door crying, “Daddy!” It lifted your spirits to know that these little people were so glad to see you, just as you are, and you were loved.

This period of time goes by far too quickly. You fail to recognize at the time that it is a precious gift. The children will mature and you are not the center of their world anymore. They have moved on.

Flash, for me, never moved on. He would meet me at the door with his tail wagging in a slow happy metronome and try to jump up on his little hind legs in greeting. He would rub his face against my leg and pant happily. I was home again! He then would follow me to wherever I went in the house as if just being near me was enough. I didn’t need to do any thing else, He would roll on his back inviting me to scratch his belly.

We loved each other.

As he aged, it became harder for him to go up steps. I would wait for him to make the climb and he seemed to appreciate it when I would praise his efforts. I understood his discomfort with my own knees. He would tire easily on walks. So do I.

I am grieving. The idea that he will no longer meet me a the door hurts a lot.

I know he lived a good life, as dog’s go. He had plenty to eat, a warm bed, and endless belly scratches. He made me laugh with his derpy mannerisms and I always looked forward to seeing him when I got home.

He has been part of my life for almost 14 years. I can’t imagine him not waiting at the door for me.

I take comfort remembering that summer night when he was out in the cobalt blue of dusk, rolling in the grass, and chasing fireflies. I'd like to think he is doing that somewhere now.

He was never fast enough to catch one.

But, that was never the point.

"Oh, it's a little bit of everything,

It's the mountains,

It's the fog,

It's the news at six o'clock,

It's the death of my first dog,

It's the angels up above me,

It's the song that they don't sing,

It's a little bit of everything."

- Dawes