Dessie's Terms: Waiting for Mason

Dessie Daisy a.k.a D’Money 2001 – 2015

Soon after Mason got home from Chicago, he confirmed my suspicions about Dessie’s deteriorating condition and called our vet. When he hung up, he said Dr. Dan was coming to the Farnival on Tuesday morning to euthanize D’Money. For five days, I’d been waiting for Mason to do exactly what he had just done, but the finality went down like a mouthful of nails.

Nobody slept a wink the night before. We lost two elder pack members last year, so we should have been experts at losing another but it’s never easy. I promise. I indulged in fantasies about Joe Poop and Annie waiting for Des at the Rainbow Bridge, which in my dreams is somewhere deep in the Redwood trees. Mason tossed and turned, but he didn’t share his thoughts. He didn’t have to. Our best friend was dying. We had adopted Des from a Nashville shelter fourteen years ago, the same year we married. Neither of us has ever met a kinder or more curious soul than our D’Money, who earned her nickname because she was always hustling for an extra piece of bacon, another lap in the creek, or an inch on her leash.

Sometime during that endless night, Des tried getting off her stool at the end of our bed but stumbled and lay sprawled like a frog on the wood floor. Mason carried her out back. They spent a few minutes meandering under the moonshine before she plopped in the grass, unable to stand anymore. I imagine that’s when Mason said his goodbyes.

I finally crawled out of bed around 5:00. I had two more hours before Des was gone, and I wasn’t missing a second. I carried her to the living room and brought her a water bowl. She rested her head against it, looking as cute as the little shaggy puppy I fell in love with years ago. I milled around her, keeping my hands busy with cleaning, anything to keep my mind off the impending deadline.

At one point, I sung out my customary, “I love you, D’ Money.” Her breathing, now always labored, paused for a beat. She picked up her paw in a playful gesture. She wore a happy look, eyes bright. A giant knot formed in my throat. I told myself to keep my shit together and went back to sweeping the dog hair always collecting on our wood floors. I didn’t know it then, but that was my goodbye.

Ten minutes later, Dessie’s body started erratically jerking. It was happening. She was going. At the same time despair overwhelmed me, I felt a giant wave of relief. Our D’ Money wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I yelled Mason’s name. We kneeled beside her and touched her everywhere and anywhere, wanting her to know we were there, right until the end. Then she was gone. Fourteen years gone in a few seconds. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to wrap my head around the quickness of death.

Now, as I think about the way Des passed, I believe she’d hung around until her whole family was together before saying goodbye. There’s nothing beautiful about death, but there is something elegant about the way Dessie left us. She picked her own ending, and it included being with her pack. Less than twenty-four hours after Mason returned from a five-day trip, Dessie died. She’d waited for Mason, but she had no intention of waiting around for Dr. Dan.