This is not a business related post but one I felt was worth publishing. Today I took my Golden Doodle, Jimbo, for his annual vet visit. Bouncy, happy dog, all too excited to run to everyone and kiss anyone who let him. A guard dog he is not. The vet and technicians were equally happy to see him and accept the kisses and jumps. I swear if they had tails, they’d be wagging too. Jimbo was a good boy during his shots. And he was rewarded with cheese and a squeaky toy. Best day ever as far as he was concerned. As his mom, despite being anxious to hear the blood test results tomorrow, I was relieved to hear the words “he’s doing great.” A simple line but I breathed a little easier. For now. I say for now because I know all too well that one day I won’t leave the vet’s office so cheerfully. I know that the day will come when my world will turn dark again. Because it did so with my first dog, Buffy. I never thought I’d be without my beloved girl. Mortality and reality were abstract concepts which I thought I understood but turned out I didn’t. Not until it slapped me in my face. Or I should say punched me in the face like a bag filled with thousands of sharp-edged rocks. Learning she had an illness was hard but, as I always do, I went into action mode to fix things. Research, appointments, specialists, list of questions, monitoring every bite of food she took, creating medication charts and schedules so I don’t miss one thing, checking her weight, activity level and so on. And it paid off for four years. She managed to have a wonderful quality of life and it didn’t matter to me that I worried every single day, terrified if she didn’t play with her favorite toy or slept too long, and my anxiety level was off the charts before each (frequent) visit to the vet. I had her, she was happy and that’s all that mattered. Until the horrific, inevitable day came when she passed. I won’t talk about that. I can’t talk about that. The reason I wrote this isn’t about the worst day of my life. I wrote this because as I was leaving the vet’s office with my Jimbo, still bouncing off the walls with excitement, I saw a man in the waiting room, sitting and quietly petting his dog, completely oblivious to his surroundings, just petting and staring at his boy. The dog was wearing a blue collar like the ones groomers give. He looked well-groomed and stylish. A true gentledog. But it took only one glance for me to realize that this would be his last visit to the vet. And this man was about to experience the raw grief and sorrow that I experienced 9 years ago. Witnessing the intimate moment of a man saying goodbye to his dog tore me up inside. I teared up, as did the two technicians who confirmed what I thought, with just sadness in their eyes. Nothing needed to be said. The only words one of them eventually uttered were, “he is 18.” Yes, thankfully the dog has lived a long life. It is of some comfort. Some. And I’ll take “some” because that’s what got me through the devastating time when I lost my Buffy at 16, whom I think about every single day. And I hope this man and his family find comfort in it as well. I am so sorry for his loss. I am also sorry that, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t contain my dog’s happy sounds as he gobbled up his tenth treat in the waiting room. I feel for this man as he opens the door to his home for the first time without his dog greeting him. I grieve with him even though he doesn’t know me. I only pray my Jimbo lives a long, healthy life. I lived blissfully ignorant until the day I lost my first dog. Knowing what’s to come (hopefully not for many years) does not make it easier. I think it’s just the opposite. In the meantime, I try my best to push away any thoughts of the cruel reality that’s bound to come one day, and soak in every second with my boy, cherish every mess, every bark, every wiggly greeting at the door, without the fear of loving him just as much as I loved my Buffy. The pain of losing our beloved pets is unbearable but I believe they’ve earned it.
Marina Joukhadarian
