The Proverbial Rainbow Bridge

Proofreading my own manuscript revealed the loss of my fiancé was not actually “lucky 13,” but it’s funnier that way.  The numbers all come out to be the same in the end, so I’m leaving it. 

I hope it seems unbelievable to you, but I lost two other fur-babies while I was with Robert. Freddy was the first Great Dane he and I adopted together, and he was equal parts sweet and neurotic, but we loved him fully. This poor four-legged fella was petrified of the vacuum. One day, while I vacuumed, I put Freddy outside, and he had what the vets think must’ve been either a heart attack or a stroke. When I found him, he was in terrible shape. I yelled for Conner, who ran to help me. We got a tarp from the garage and wriggled it underneath Freddy. We carried him from the sloped backyard, uphill to the front yard, and somehow managed to lift Freddy up into the back of my SUV. All 140 pounds of him! That was no small feat. 

I hopped in the back with Freddy and Conner drove us to the vet’s office. I frantically tried to give the dog mouth-to-snout. I was yelling, “Freddy! Freddy!” I was breathing into his snout, pounding on his chest, and pleading for him to stay with us. Conner was exceedingly calm. He pulled in and stopped. I hurled myself out of the back of the truck and ran inside. “There’s an emergency! My Great Dane,” I said in a panic. Before I knew it, there were three technicians with a stretcher. They put Freddy on it and carried him inside, where he died a few minutes later. 

Loss (traumatic loss) number 15. Holly, a Christmas surprise from my first husband, was on her last fur-leg when Freddy died. I’d had her since she was a pup. We unoriginally named her Holly. She was a fantastic pet: loving, obedient, cute as heck, and tolerant. Conner was an energetic two-year-old when Holly joined our family, so she quickly perfected her tolerance levels. By 17, as you can imagine, our sweet little Holly was deaf and blind, and wobbled around bouncing into walls. She could barely eat and seemed to be in pain most of the time. She was prescribed nightly pain-meds, yet still whimpered throughout the night. She wasn’t “living”, but just surviving.  We decided that it was time for her to go to Doggie Heaven. Or “over the Rainbow Bridge”? I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds nice. She was no longer enjoying her life, so we made the arrangements. Conner, Kristyn, and I were all there at the vet’s office on Holly’s day of departure. Before we sent her off, we loved on her, gave her kisses and cuddles and fed her scrambled eggs (her favorite). Being with my children, holding our sweet and precious fur-baby, and loving on her while she peacefully went into her forever sleep, was a surprisingly calm and lovely experience. Fur-baby losses are also very sad.