from today's paper

Hankie alert, but says it all

We lost our seven-yearold girl this week. She fought every indignity that cancer threw at her with such bravery that at times she hardly seemed ill.
The cancer was so aggressive that she lasted only a month from diagnosis. I held her in my arms when she died, gazing into her big brown eyes, which were like melted chocolate, and stroking her red hair. It was peaceful and, in its own way, beautiful.
Yesterday, I passed her toy box and broke into tears, looking at the ball that will never be fetched, the rope that will never be tugged.
If you are not a dog person and think this is terribly maudlin, I understand.
People suffer human losses every day, as I know so well, because 2011 has been a horrible year for our family.
Yet, there is something about the loss of a companion animal that is difficult to explain to those who have never experienced it.
With a dog, you never argue over whose turn it is to do the dishes, or take out the garbage, or underwear left on the floor. There is no baggage. There are no bad memories.
Pet bereavement therapists say that losing a companion animal can be more devastating than a human loss for some people. That might seem absurd, but I totally get it.
"Grief is a broken heart. The amount we grieve is related to the amount we loved," says Straja Linder King, a Calgary therapist who uses registered therapy dogs for her work in hospices and long-term care facilities. Grief doesn't check itself at the door just because of a four-legged loss.
There is a social stigma about mourning the death of a pet that forces people to become closet grievers, and that's not healthy, says Linder King. The connection we have with pets is deep and profound, and that's how it was for me.
Piper gave me a hero's welcome whenever I came home, even though I did not deserve it. There was no complaining if I was late, grumpy, profane or inebriated. All foibles and flaws, a dog accepts.
Losing a dog is like losing a part of yourself. Research in the International Journal of Applied Research in Veterinary Medicine confirms the long-held belief that dogs reflect the personality of their keepers. By that measure, we must have been fairly good humans.
Physical discipline was never dispensed, only praise for good behaviour. In return, Piper never snarled, growled or cowered. She loved children, greeted strangers with insane joy and never chewed a sock.
I suspect most of the 122,000 dogs in Calgary are similarly good souls, because we spoil them rotten.
On Piper's first night with us, I curled up and slept with her at the back door so she wouldn't be scared and whimper. We were determined that she would sleep on her own bed, not ours, but that didn't last long. As much as we tried, she refused to be kennelled, insisting to be with her human pack. Perhaps I should have been more strict from the start, but if the result was a dog that craved human contact every waking minute, well, call me stupid.
We expected longevity. Her grandmother was 14. When Piper was diagnosed as terminal, there were tears, denial and rage at the injustice for one so young, just as with people.

When she became sick, I vowed that I would not let her make her last journey alone. When her time was at hand, I carried her to the car and laid her in the back. We prayed that she would not sit up, for that would have made it much more difficult. She did not. She was telling us it was OK.
The room they prepared for her at the vet had a couch, like a living room, and a white quilt spread on the floor. The caring Sylvia explained the process. She would inject Piper with an overdose of the same anesthesia used for surgery.
Piper would go into a deep unconscious state and her organs would quickly shut down.
It took perhaps 30 seconds. She did not struggle, or soil herself, or protrude her tongue, or convulse. She died gently in my arms as if asleep, just like that first night in her strange new house at the back door with some big doofus at her side.
About 200 dogs die every month in Calgary. If you've lost yours, don't let anyone tell you that it's silly to grieve. You lost a constant companion and source of comfort. Go ahead and cry.

Robert Remington is a Herald editorial writer.

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