Cody
Not just a good boy, the best boy.
This is generally a single-issue Substack, but I need to process some feelings, so you’ll forgive me this one time. Stay tuned for your (ir)regularly scheduled gender insanity posts next week.
I put my cat, Willow, to sleep in January of 2023. She was 16.
Adjusting to her absence was strange because I hadn't realized how much of my life was centered around her presence until she was gone.
I'd sit at my desk and feel strangely light without my seven-pound lap warmer; extend out my legs on the couch, then immediately pull back, thinking I might accidentally kick where she used to nap on the other end. But there was nothing there.
Even now, my sense memories still know exactly what her weight in my arms felt like and how soft her fur was. I can picture rubbing under her chin (her favourite spot) and the way she'd stretch her neck towards me when I did so. I can remember what it was like to risk running my fingers through her belly fur (the softest forbidden zone) and exactly how long she'd be willing to tolerate it.
It was those memories that caused sudden bursts of tears in the months after.
I put my dog to sleep yesterday morning. He was almost 14.
My cat departed this world, and I went home to my dog.
My dog departed this world, and I went home to an empty house.
Cody was living at a foster home out in the boonies when I adopted him. I took public transit as far as it would take me and a taxi the remaining distance.
He was outside in the grass with his two sisters and one brother (and other foster dogs) when we arrived. I had him selected before arriving, but I did consider each of the puppies before leaving with him. His brother was feistier, more nippy. Both of his sisters were sweet, though one of the two appeared to have some vision loss.
Another family, a pre-teen girl and her mother, were there selecting a puppy as well, and they were leaning towards one of the girls. I had a friend with me, and I asked him which puppy I should choose. He liked the little blind puppy most. She was the calmest and my second choice, but I was concerned that she might come with extra veterinary costs due to her disability. (The other family had the same concerns.)
I went with my initial choice. The other family took his other sister. We found out they were from Toronto, and they drove us home. I sat in the back seat with the girl, the two newly-adopted puppies sleeping on top of each other on the seat between the two of us.
The first night he was home, Cody slept on my pillow next to me. (The one and only time he did so!)
Cody grew into a handsome young man. He started out with sweet floppy ears and surprised me when they decided to stand straight up. During his awkward teen years, they were too big for his head.
Though we bonded quickly, I found out he was very much a one-person puppy who didn't really like strangers. He would get used to individuals eventually, but he ducked away from strange hands reaching out to pet him, barking indignantly. This was true the rest of his life, even though I was out socializing him immediately and had him in about a dozen different training classes meeting new people frequently.
He was a lot like me in his approach to others -- quiet (sometimes aloof) until he felt comfortable. I warned everyone that I introduced him to that he needed time to warm up, though, and he always did. I can't think of any friends who didn't adore him afterwards (certainly not into old age - he was a little more difficult to tolerate in the bouncy puppy years).
Cody became a different dog in 2019. He injured one of his back paws and refused to put weight on it. We saw a vet who, in my opinion, downplayed the seriousness of this injury. A week later, he leapt off the porch steps towards a squirrel, landed full on the remaining "good" back leg, and made the most horrifying noise I've ever heard come out of him.
Unable to walk and screaming when he tried, my frantic roommate and I took him to the emergency vet, who advised us that he had torn ligaments in both of his back knees. The surgery to stabilize him would be expensive for one leg, never mind two. It was estimated to be about $10,000 for both.
I did research that suggested he might be able to get by with no surgery, and since I worked from home and would be able to monitor him 24/7, I chose this more conservative route. He was able to walk consistently after a few months.
Cody always did some things differently after this event. He couldn't balance on one leg to urinate anymore, so he shifted his hips forward instead. He had difficulty squatting to poop for the rest of his life, though he managed by putting most of his weight on his front legs. He was eventually able to run again, but not as fast, and he had to adapt by planting both back legs at the same time instead of one after the other.
His favourite thing was water -- he once jumped into a lake in chilly November before I was able to stop him -- and though he was able to swim after the injury, he would stop much sooner, and in the last two years, he stopped leaving the shallow end and only waded in the water instead of paddling.
In his last couple years, he developed arthritis in all four legs. He had a sudden onset of vestibular disease symptoms in December of 2022. He was outside walking around and then suddenly he couldn't walk straight anymore. (This went away after a few days.)
Repeatedly I thought "this is it" and he just kept powering on.
The arthritis started getting bad enough that he didn't seem to want to go on long walks much anymore. When I got into hiking last year, I took him on one very long walk to a provincial park six kilometers from my home, thinking he'd really enjoy it. When we got home, I found that his paws and toenails were bleeding. He hadn't been able to lift them high enough to keep them from dragging on the ground.
I thought about his quality of life many times in the last five years. He had slowly lost the ability to do the things he really loved doing: chasing balls and frisbees, swimming in the lake, and finally just going on walks.
If I'd had to leave to go to work every day, I may have made the decision sooner. It would have been cruel to leave him alone for eight hours a day on top of everything else. But I worked from home nearly the entire time I had Cody, and we kept each other company.
Earlier this year, his arthritis got bad enough that he stopped coming upstairs with me to go to bed every night. On the occasions that he did, he would sometimes go back down in the middle of the night and fall down the stairs. A month ago, I started to sleep on the couch so that he wouldn't try to come up.
On Monday night when I was up late reading, Cody stood up to walk to his water dish and his coordination was clearly off. His head was tilted like it had been the last time he'd had vestibular symptoms.
The following few days, he repeatedly fell over. He couldn't get down the three steps that led into the backyard without help. He stopped eating and drank very little.
I made the call on Thursday morning and set the appointment for the following day. (I didn't want him to dehydrate over the weekend.)
Yesterday morning, I woke up and made a pizza. After years of giving him my leftover crusts, I planned to give him one to himself as his "last meal." I let it cool and called him over. He approached with interest, took the piece I gave him, then dropped it on the ground and looked at me like he had no idea what to do with it.
This was a dog who, days before, would've risked chomping my fingers off if it meant he could eat a pizza slice. Food was probably one of the last things he got any enjoyment from. I broke down crying.
We walked to the vet shortly afterwards. It's normally about an eight minute walk (half a kilometer), and I gave us extra time to get there since I didn't know how difficult it would be for him.
His last barks were the excitement of realizing I had his leash and was taking him out.
Halfway there, he was already tired.
Having held my cat in my arms as she passed in this same vet office the year before, I knew exactly what to expect (though this time they had bedding set up on the floor).
The vet gave him the first sedative and left the room to let it take effect.
I lay down next to him and pulled him into my arms as it started to kick in. The last thing he was fully conscious for was me holding him, telling him he was my baby.
When the vet returned to administer the final injections, I had my face pressed into his, looking directly into his eyes. If there was some chance he could still see something in his last moments, it was me. All I could see was the puppy I'd brought home 14 years earlier, sleeping on my pillow next to me.
Like I experienced with the loss of my cat, there is a part of me that is confused.
I woke up this morning for the first time without him. It's the first time I've slept in my own bed for the past month.
He's not in the bed with me, and he's not downstairs either.
He's not waiting to be let outside first thing in the morning.
He's not laying in the bathroom next to the tub while I shower.
He's not following me to the next room every time I leave.
He's not underfoot, getting in the way while I try to make myself food.
He's not eyeing my plate when I eat, hoping for scraps.
He's not watching me dancing in my living room.
He's not on the floor next to the couch when I'm watching TV.
He's not in my back entrance, keeping an eye on the door.
But I keep expecting him. I keep thinking I hear him, but it's just the house creaking. I think I see him for a split second, but it's just something I've left on the ground.
I am raw with grief, and every touch stings.
There is no resolution today. Just a loss that will get easier to bear with time and a hole in my heart that will never completely close.
(Not just a good boy, the best boy.)