Pip, my shelter dog pitbull mix, died peacefully on Saturday after nine years of a beautiful life, hiking, enjoying the dog park, going with me on all kinds of adventures. Two weeks ago the vet told me he had tumors in his stomach and said he would either be put down at once or die shortly at home.
I was stricken. Although he had seemed to lack energy, the reason for our trip to the vet, I hadn’t imagined that he was terminally sick. But I knew I couldn’t leave him there to die, terrified, in a strange place without me. So I took him home.
At first I couldn’t believe I was going to lose my beloved companion. Those of you who live alone, like me, know the large amount of entertainment and pure love our animal friends give us.
But, as though he had understood what the vet said, Pip began at once his slow journey toward “that country from which no traveler returns.” At first he still wanted his walks, although at a very slow pace; we went to his favorite park, he splashed in the Santa Fe River—really a stream—and ate his favorite wild green that grows along the bank. Afterwards he would rest for a long time in the cool grass; on his last visit, he couldn’t get up but with his usual stalwart heart, he managed it. After that he didn’t want his walks.
Then he stopped eating. Nothing I offered him—chicken breasts, ground turkey—tempted him, which meant no pain pills. I don’t think he was in pain, although his stoicism might have prevented him from showing it.
As he grew thin, he slept more, at night on a couch under the portale, during the day on his fur pads. He wagged his tail for the last time ten days ago when my son Barry dropped by.
As he grew thinner, his brown eyes seemed more prominent. Often he would stare at me for minutes at a time.
Last Saturday, while I was at the Farmers’ Market, he wanted to get through the dog door in my bathroom but never made it. When I came back, I found him lying dead on my bathroom floor, pillowing his head on his paw. His eyes were open, looking at the door.
We buried him in the garden later that day. I read a poem from Mary Oliver’s Devotions, explaining that a dog comes to us, but we do not own him, any more than me own the wind and the rain. My daughter-in-law translated the poem into Spanish for Gilberto and his son who dug his grave. He went into it wrapped in a blue blanket, one stiffened, white-tipped paw sticking out.
I believe he had the life he wanted, with the exception of some times when his walk was not as long as he would have preferred. I believe he had the death he wanted.
May we all be so blessed.
Mary Oliver: “Her Grave”
[edited slightly]
A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you
do not therefore own him, as you do not own the rain, or the
trees, or the laws which pertain to them.…
A dog can never tell you what he knows from the
smells of the world, but you know, watching him, that you know
almost nothing.…
He roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or
wait for me, or be somewhere.Now he is buried under the trees.
Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and
not to be angry.
I really admire you, Sallie, for your insights and ability to open up your world.. we only met a couple times in random places. But I felt like a friend.
Dear Sallie,
We are so very sorry to hear about Pip’s passing. Now he is enjoying those heavenly pastures of green grass, trees, plants, and streams. He was a dear one and we remember him especially when we visited you once a while back in your home. All of us who have been blessed to have our dear animal friends and companions understand and grieve right along with you.
Take care dear friend,
Trish & Greg
I’m so sorry about the death of your beloved dog, Sallie. So painful! I read your work faithfully and appreciate all you share. We met at the Buddhist Center near Jemez Springs several years ago.
Sally, I just read your beaufully crafted tribute while walking with my two mutt friends, Democracy and Minnie Pearl. Now I sit under a tree in this San Francisco park, dabbing tears, and loving my little pals all the more. Thank you Pip.
Animals are the best friends for humans. Loving you for being you. Pip was lucky and so were you Sallie to have Pip as your companion. Blessings to both of you. We have to believe our animal friends get the death they wanted. We need this for our sanity because sometimes we must choose it for them. RIP Pip!
Such a loving story, Sallie! (Long time no see, or talk!) We are right there with you in the bonds of love we and our dog build together. Sorry for your inevitable loss of Pip.
–Steve Fox, Taos
John and I send love upon learning of the death of our former neighbor Pip. Blessings to you both.
Betty and John Baxter. Santa Fe