12/27/19
It’s been a little over 24 hours since we lost our beloved Cooper. And it’s starting to sink in: he isn’t coming home. The agony of it is taking hold, its roots threading their way into the depths of our existence. Even writing that phrase is like a punch to the gut. He’s not coming home. He’s not coming home? He’s not coming with us to Italy? He’s not even coming home? How can that be? How can we not have this sweet boy in our lives?

We keep calling him our sweet boy, and anyone who knew him knows that no statement was ever more befitting. In fact, he came to us as a foster from a litter of cookie-named pups with the name “Sugar,” which we thought was much too simplistic for him so we started calling him Spice, which morphed into Spike, an ironic name because he was in fact so sweet and eager to please. But we knew it wouldn’t be as cute when he got bigger, so we tried several other names (including my suggestion of Jackson or MJ because of his one white paw, but Victor nixed that, along with a friend’s suggestion of Chicago) before we settled on Cooper, which just fit.

But, our sweet Coopster is not coming home this time. The enormity of this is beginning to be real. It took this long for me to make the connection because we’ve had to leave him at the hospital overnight, to spend nights without him, three times before. And even that was excruciating, like leaving a part of myself. Being away from him each of those times was truly torturous, not knowing if/how/when we could get him back, if he was okay, if they were treating him well, if he was in pain, if he thought we left him and weren’t coming back, but most of all, if he needed our reassurance. Why couldn’t we stay with him? Vets need to begin to implement this as an option. Especially for people like me, who are seen as annoyances, because of our questions, our fervor to make sure our babies are being cared for, not just physically, but emotionally. Vets above all should know that these are emotional beings they’re dealing with, not just little physical manifestations. With only one exception, I could feel their resentment every time I questioned what they were doing, every time I implored them to let me see where he would be staying, every time I called to check on him, and every time I demanded to see my baby so I could reassure him. I could hear and feel the eye rolls, and more than once, I admitted out loud that I knew I was a pain in the ass, all in the service of being a warrior for my boy. And wasn’t corrected, wasn’t told that they knew I was doing what was best for him. Don’t get me wrong, many of our vets are wonderful and exceedingly patient (Dr. Sasher, Dr. Jordan, Dr. Saba, and Dr. Evans), others not so much. But the overnights are particularly agonizing, and many of the staff seem completely inured to the plight of the parents (not owners). But I digress. It’s easier to feel the anger and indignation than the loss right now. That’s a topic for another time, and it will be, after I’ve processed some of the anguish.

That said, somewhere deep down, even with the frustrations, I was confident that we were doing things that would not only bring him home, but bring him back to himself, and back to us. But this. Now. Knowing that yes, we made the right decision to end the pain he was obviously in that last couple of days, but that it was with the knowledge that it was at our own expense, not being able to have him in our lives anymore. The hole he has left here is enormous, and raw, and it’s incredible to me to realize how much energy that being filled this house with, now that he’s gone. With seven(!) other animals here (Izzy plus our four cats plus the two foster returns), the house feels empty, and desolate. And the knowledge that it won’t ever again be graced with his presence fills us with a sorrow that is now in our beings, has become a part of the fabric of who we are, all of us. It takes residence in our souls and our hearts, leaving a painful imprint that may someday become a scar, with any luck, but a scar nonetheless, that still twinges when touched. It now will reside alongside the Bobka scar, still tender after a long 6 ½ years of his absence.

I know there are some who won’t understand this, who will think, what, it’s just a dog. Others say, yes it’s like losing a child. No, he was our child, our first child together, and we loved him as deeply and unconditionally as if he were born of our own DNA: we cherished him, fought for him, protected him, and cared for him as we would a human child. We would give of our own lives for him if we could. But now, there are others we still need to care for, with that same fervor, and that same compassion, and that same respect. Those who understand this must also carry scars of those they’ve lost. This is the downside of love.

Cooper, you were an amazing friend, protector, and caretaker, and the light and sweetness you brought to our home and our lives will endure. You fought valiantly to stay as long as you could, and bravely withstood treatments, medications, and vet visits, and did it all with your trademark sweetness. We know your spirit wasn’t really ready to leave; you would have stayed longer if your body had let you, if that damn disease hadn’t been wracking your body with pain. You were the caretaker until the very end, even on that last night when I lost control and started sobbing, and you turned your head to me to comfort me. Even on your last day, when your legs wouldn’t carry you on the walk you longed to take, and you wouldn’t come back inside until your whole flock was safely inside, despite the pain.

You always did your very best to take care and give care to all of us. You respected and revered Bobka as the king he was. You were exceedingly patient with me as I muddled and bungled my way through being a first-time doggie mom. Luckily for you, you also had a dad who was a great doggie dad, and knew what to do with the wriggling bundle of fur and love that you were, and who patiently tried to teach me how to do likewise. That was made all the easier by your sunshiney morning greetings, your cuddles with us under the covers, your passion for chasing balls, and your always eager to please countenance. You astounded us with your understanding of an extensive vocabulary, your ability to distinguish the orange ball from the blue ball, and your ability to play the hot and cold game with me simply using voice commands. Your intensity in listening to what we were saying, your eyebrows dancing and your head cocked as you struggled to make sense of new sounds we formed with our mouths, your big brown eyes widening with understanding when you worked it out, and your ability to read my mind made it difficult to surprise or trick you, and your play bow when you tried to show me how to interact with you.

Later, you welcomed kittens into our home, watched over them as enthusiastically and as tenderly as if they were your own. You then (if a bit grudgingly at first) became the greatest big brother your little sister Izzy could have had, and even graciously allowed her to steal thunder while showing her the ropes (or trying). You stole the hearts of everyone you met, out at the farmers’ markets and at home in our potlucks and Italian conversation groups. You even converted a few dog-fearful people (Rachel for one!) to not just tolerate you but become your biggest fans, with your gentle nature and sunny disposition. You did your best to comfort me when we lost Bobka, to show me the way back to the light from that deep darkness. I’m not sure I could have survived that without you and Victor tag-teaming to comfort me. I know Izzy will try to do likewise now, but between you and me, she’s just not as good at it as you are. Not sure anyone is!

I think I can speak for all of us when I say you will be missed a hundredfold as much as you are loved, and that love is immense and ceaseless. Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy and healthy. I hope you’re chasing balls endlessly, and rolling on your back in some patch of verdant grass somewhere. I’ll try to focus on these images, and on all that you brought to us, even through the tears of the grief we feel over your loss, to hold onto the love you brought us more than the hole your leaving has left us. I hope you see your friends Henry, Emma, Cutter, Jackson, Zoe, and Dolce (even though you didn’t actually meet these last two, they were in your orbit, as was Moksha, who was before your time, but you’ll love him, too).

Say hello to Bobka for us, and watch over him as you did here. Until we see you again, our sweet, sweet boy.