It's Friday!

***Chad and Bernie in Bernie's St. Paul backyard, September 2004***

And it's still awfully quiet in this here house.

I want to let you know that I am going to continue posting here, maybe every day, maybe not. However, I will make it clear when I'm done posting--like, I'll say, "I'm done posting." So keep checking back if you want to read more.

I started this blog the day I was told Bernie had a month or so left. My assumption was that I'd post each of her remaining days, starting with tales of our life, chronicle her final days, and everything would be wrapped into a neat little package. It didn't work that way, and that's okay. My reasons for starting this were to get a lot of my favorite things and times with her on "paper," so when I'm an old man and don't remember anything a friend or family member can direct me to this text and I'll be all, "Bernie . . . Bernie! Yes! The black dog!" And everyone will clap and smile because the old man actually remembers something. Second, I've lived here, there, and everywhere with Bernie, thus there are a lot of people who know her. I wanted those people to be able to follow Bernie's last steps--many of you played an important part in creating and ensuring her quality of life. What I didn't forsee was what I consider vast interest in this blog, even from people who've never met Bernie. Thank you.

Now, I'm going to report on her last 24 hours, including her passing. If you don't want to read that, stop here.

As you recall, I took Bernie to the vet Tuesday evening, and we decided to let 'er rip a little longer, as her condition was dramtically improved from the morning. So after the vet, Bernie and I ran some errands--Petco, the bank, and a couple other spots. She had her head out the window most of the time. It was a good last day. She slept pretty well, only waking twice, I think, to pant and get some water. I was relatively pleased with this. Wednesday morning, though, she presented a deep cough (I've since concluded that she inhaled water due to her tumor fouling up the flow of things. This would have cleared by the end of the day, but it was a good sign of not-good things to come, i.e. it would've happened again soon, and again . . . ), similar but not exactly like the one she had after her Valium binge. I gave it some time, it continued, and she was panting heavily. Not much later, I decided it was time to let her go. I notified my boss and called the vet. It was about 9am, and her appointment was at 1130.

My mental instinct was to sadly note every "last"--her last drink, last time upstairs, last time on the couch, etc. I steadfastly resisted doing this, though, because it just wasn't what I wanted to do. Instead, we had a good time. I fed her a hot dog, she drank, I laid her on the cool kitchen floor, I took pictures, we took a short stroll up and down the street, but the majority of her last couple hours was spent laying on the couch, me talking with her and stroking her soft, long fur. I loved petting that dog, always.

I think the hardest part was leaving the house, indeed knowing that this was the last time she'd be inside our house, the last time she'd leave out our back door, the last time she would be in her backyard, the last time she would walk to my car, the last time she would ride in my car. Heartbreaking.

She didn't want to get out of the car. Even when I picked her up, she didn't want to get out of the car! Finally, we walked through the vet's door, they directed us to a corner room. It was relatively large, with a soft quilt laid on the floor. I was composed but fragile.

The vet tech came in, and a few tears ran from my eyes. I laid Bernie down, her panting, and pet her while the vet tech and I discussed a few things. Bernie was comfortable, my hand never leaving her. Soon after, the vet came in. It was Dr. Olson, who had always treated Bernie until she went on maternity leave a year or so ago. We didn't discuss Bernie's condition, we both knew that at the very least this wasn't the wrong time. Eventually, they joined Bernie and me on the floor, both the tech and vet petting Bernie and talking to her. They were very nice.

I held Bernie's head while the vet rummaged through her big fur to find a vein. It took a bit of work, and at one point Bernie snapped her jaws at the vet. I said, "Good girl!" and we all laughed. Bernie, though, was calm and comfortable, and eventually the formula entered her bloodstream, and she began to sleep. However, the vet informed me that the vein wasn't holding enough, and she'd have to move to Bernie's hind leg.

This was actually a nice thing. Bernie had enough of the formula in her that she was sleeping soundly, breathing quietly, like she used to. I loved it. I pet her, listened to her, had my head pressed against her, smelled her. This went on for a couple minutes, and it was peaceful and serene. Finally, I saw Bernie's nostrils slow their contractions to a minimum. Shortly after, Bernie stopped breathing.

The vet and tech left the room, telling me they would make a clay paw mold after I'd gone but to stay as long as I wanted. My forehead on hers, I broke down when the door closed, my tears dripping on her muzzle. She was in my favorite pose of hers, laying on her belly, paws flanking her face. She looked relaxed and adorable. I took a picture. I always loved watching her sleep, petting her while she did. I gently removed her collar.

I stayed for ten or fifteen minutes, petting her and telling her what a good dog she was and is. I told her she was going to Puppy Heaven. I was confused as to when I should leave. Did I really have to leave? Could I go with her? I decided to go with her, closing my eyes and envisioning her sprinting to Puppy Heaven, me petting her all the way. When she made it, I grabbed my scissors and gently trimmed some of her beautiful fur for my keeping. That, along with her ashes, will someday be buried with me.

When done, I kneeled beside her again, whispered some sweet nothings, stroked her gently, and told her I love her. "We did good, Bernie." She answered, "We're a good team, Dad. Black dog loves you too." I lifted myself up, her leash, collar, and fur in hand, and walked out, telling her what I've told her every time I've ever left: "I'll be back, buddy. You be good. I'll be back."