It's Nights Like These I Miss My Dog

Today, on a walk with Anja and a friend's daughter, I saw a dog who looked exactly like our old dog, Ben. He tried to lick the girls, and I gave him my face to kiss instead.

Two years and four months ago we had to put Ben down, not because he was sick or old and in pain, but because he had a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality that was growing worse with age and with the unapproved arrival of Anja. Long story short, we got him when he was already 4, and knew nothing about his history. The pound said he showed no signs of aggression. We learned the hard way over 5 years that he didn't like other dogs, cats, or homeless people, or people carrying duffle bags, or women wearing fur coats. He would give small warnings of "attack" mode, and if these were not heeded (ie by dogs who insisted on sniffing his bottom for a kilometer or two), he would go for the jugular. We worked with the best trainers, and tried and tried to change it, but the straw that broke the camel's back was when, if there hadn't been a baby gate between them (we never, ever, ever, had the baby in the same room as him if she wasn't in our arms), he would have attacked Anja. We tried to place him in foster care, but no one would take him. They said he would die of a broken heart away from us, anyway, and they were probably right. He died in our arms at the vet's. We had to do it, but it still felt like the biggest betrayal in the world.

You see, like most dogs do for their owners, Ben had fierce loyalty, love and devotion to Kirk and I. He kept me safe on runs through Pacific Spirit Park in Vancouver, on solo hiking trips, and trained for marathons with both Kirk and I (the only two times I saw him tired were after running 30 km and after our trip on the Juan de Fuca trail on Vancouver Island). More than that, he was totally cued in to our states of mind.

When I was pregnant with Anja, I had another bout of depression (see post about moving to Calgary for med school and being pregnant and alone). Every time I had a bath, Ben would insist on coming into the bathroom and keeping watch on the bathmat until I got out again - like he knew bad things could happen in the bath in my state of mind. When I started to feel better, he didn't do this anymore.

I can still hear him digging his bed and see him turning circle after circle before settling down. I can hear his huff of breath, his sleeping dream chases (squirrel!), and feel his fur and the rise and fall of his belly under my hand. Sometimes I think these sensory/body memories are what builds us into who we are. I miss his complete companionship, the way he pranced to the kitchen for post-walk cookies, his kisses on my face.

Tonight, I could really use Ben around to keep me company. Kirk is on call again. He's been on pediatric ICU, which has it's own fair share of horror stories. The trouble is with this intense rotation is that this week, I am experiencing a miscarriage. It's the second baby I've lost in a row - the first to an ectopic pregnancy last year. This time, it looked like trouble after an ultrasound meant to screen out another ectopic showed no baby at all after at least 30 minutes of invasive and uncomfortable transvaginal "procedure." It was still fairly early, so there was a chance they just couldn't see anything yet, but I had a doctor's appointment that afternoon anyway. My fabulous, fantastic family doctor took another round of blood to monitor HCG, which has to happen in all post-ectopic pregnancies. Mine had been doubling normally to that point. It takes a day for results, and I still held out hope, but the next day I started to bleed. My doctor saw me at 8:45 that night and said my HCG had fallen significantly, from 174 to 40. And so it began.

Between me being gone most of Tuesday night at the doctor's, Kirk having a trauma come in yesterday afternoon and so not being able to call to see how I was and having to work late, then falling asleep putting Anja to bed, I've seen him maybe a total of three hours since this all began. I feel like I am in this pretty much alone, though I've had much needed support from friends here and afar, from my preist, and even my family doctor who called tonight to see how I was. Still, the person I most need isn't here.

I know there are terrible, awful, indescribable things happening to the children at the hospital, and I honestly feel like weeping when he tells me of his patients. He's also vocalized to me that he finds it hard to worry about things at home when dealing with life, death and incredibly painful things happening to these poor kids. I guess I just think this maybe isn't one of the small inconsequentials of home.

When people tell me "it will all be worth it in the end," I want to slap them and scream at the same time. Yes, we are so lucky to live here in this country and that we will have the money (because this is what people really mean when they talk about it being worth it in the end), and he will have a fulfilling career in which he gets to help people, but what they don't realize is that here I am alone for the third night since I started to miscarry, and that I'm missing the dog I killed because he was always, always there waiting to lay his head on my lap, to look up at me with those big sad eyes and say "I know."