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My dog Mina passed away on Saturday. Understandably, I am unwell.
She was mine before she was ours. I met her when she lived at the dog shelter I worked at. She was so badly behaved, but she was also the sweetest cuddle bug once you got past it. She’s the only dog that I would weep at the prospect of her not being in my life. I’m now grappling with that, 10 years later.
Mina was the sweetest dog, but she was not easy. Anyone with a leash/barrier reactive dog will know what I mean. She also had bad knees and at one point needed surgery, meaning I carried her 50lbs up and down three flights of stairs multiple times a day. Despite all of it, she lived a very full life. We went on a lot of adventures. She made so many human, dog, and cat friends. She helped many dogs become acclimated to living in a home. She helped me foster a baby kitten. She loved and protected my kids.
There are people we’ve notified because they love me, then there are people we’ve notified because they love both of us. I love thinking of all those people. It’s been comforting to me that they all say a similar thing- that I love and cared for her better than most people could or would.
I’ve realized that when someone I love dies, I always worry that they didn’t know how much I loved them. With Mina, I have no doubt that she knew. For the past 10 years I structured my life with her best interest in mind, and I would do it all again and again. She was and always will be my soul dog 💗
Nov 25, 2024
wrote about death and my cat Stu (who is still very much alive!!!). it's weird but i like it.
Sep 20, 2024
🐕
A few days ago, my dad woke up with the words "Ginny's not coming back inside."
Ginny is my dog, a nearly 15 year old Yellow Lab-German Shepard mutt that I rescued in 2013 at the age of 4. She's been a patient, loving and calm companion to me throughout my 20’s, and has overtime won the hearts of my Pakistani parents, both of whom were deeply terrified of large dogs until Ginny joined our family.
What do you mean Ginny's not coming back inside? I asked.
"She's not coming back inside. I think she likes it out there. I have to leave for work, can you let her back inside?"
I nod yes and roll over. I hear my dad descend the stairs, leave the house, start his car and back out of the driveway before I get up myself. I scroll my phone aimlessly for a couple of minutes and decide to check on Ginny.
I go to the back door. Usually when she’s ready, she meets us there, ready to re-enter the indoors. When I don't see her there, I immediately get worried - maybe she escaped from the yard.
It happened once before when someone forgot to close the gate. We found her a few hours later, having a solo picnic in the next-door neighbor's garbage. All the desperate cries she must have heard and ignored in pursuit of scraps; the frantic phone call to the police and nearby animal shelters. We drove around and walked in zig-zags all through our neighborhood only to discover she didn’t stray far at all.
I open the door, now more alert and panicked than seconds ago, but quickly spot her across the backyard. Laying down.
I freeze until I see her chest rise and fall. She's sleeping.
This was a few days ago.
Almost every time we let Ginny out now, we have to cajole her back inside because she loves being outside, alone, with nature. I don’t indulge her too much, I know isolation is a sign of discomfort and pain in dogs, but I think of my grandmother, my dad’s mom, who spent her final days napping in our yard, back when we lived in the suburbs of Toronto. My siblings and I would watch her, baffled, as she placed a sheet on the lawn, lay down and rested there for hours. Didn’t she want to be in the cool air conditioning, maybe watch some tv? Do something a little more… interesting? Wasn’t being outside deeply underwhelming? We never asked her these questions so I’m not sure what in particular she liked about the experience. If could guess, it made her feel connected to the earth, it gave her a sense of peace and comfort, she enjoyed the silence and simplicity of it.
Yesterday, it was raining. I let Ginny out, thinking to myself, surely she’ll come back inside - it’s pouring rain, for god’s sakes - only to go out searching for her 10 minutes later to find her soaked, laying on the ground. I choked up at the sight. I brought her inside and dried her up.
Later in the day, Ginny had her vet appointment. They weighed her. Unsurprisingly, she was 10 pounds short of her usual weight. Unsurprisingly, she was diagnosed with arthritis and dementia. They took bloodwork and warned there could be more. We wouldn’t have the results for a few days. They gave me some medicine to help her with pain management and appetite stimulants to help her regain some weight.
Today, it’s cloudy but the rain won’t start for a few more hours. My mom suggested we bring a towel out to make Ginny more comfortable. I also gave Ginny my cashmere sweater as a blanket, placing it on top of her laying body. I thought she might like it, but it's hard to tell what she likes anymore.
As I write this, she’s been out there for an hour now. It's time for her to come back inside, eat her breakfast and take her medicine.
Mar 6, 2024
