I was already pregnant when Lottie was diagnosed with stage two kidney disease, though I didn’t know it yet. When we started trying for a baby, we still imagined that we would be lucky, that Lottie had five or more years left, that she would get to sniff the baby’s head, kiss their little feet, that Lot would grow old while the baby grew up and for awhile we would be a perfect little foursome of a family.
Since late August, we’ve been administering a saline drip every other day to help flush out her kidneys. This involves me sitting in Lottie’s favorite IKEA chair and holding her tight while Bryan hangs the saline bag from a kitchen cabinet and stands over us to find the perfect spot for a needle, and then everyone just stares at each other for the five or so minutes it takes for the 200ml to work it’s way under her skin. I kiss her head and make up songs to try and soothe her. The very first time we tried this at home it was a complete disaster; we hadn’t figured out the chair trick, I was holding her while she stood on our kitchen cart, she would not be still and kept yanking the needle out and I was trying not to pass out from stress and the early days of my morning sickness. There was a lot of blood, and a lot of crying, and this overwhelming feeling that we couldn’t possibly do this, and how long would we have to do this?
And then it became, I will do this forever if it means I can hold on to Lottie forever.
I first saw Lottie on the MDSPCA website when I was scrolling for dogs at work. She was a tiny, beautiful, scruffy little thing in a bandana with crinkled up whiskers and her head cocked a smidge to one side and I fell in love. The bandana turned out to be a lie- this is a dog that refuses to wear clothes- but otherwise she was perfect.
We brought Lottie home on the heels of spring, a furry bundle already a year and a half old with several families behind her, but none of them were us. She had been waiting for us. Still, I obsessed over what we had missed, how small she must have been as a puppy, all of the places she had been, the people she she had loved, who had disappointed her. I wanted to giver her everything. We bought a house with a yard and put in a fence, but she still loves the front porch the most, because she loves people, watching them go by, potential friends, her extended family. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers those people from before, the ones who couldn’t give her a home. Are they in there, somewhere, a little love reserved because dogs can’t help but love?
I can look back on that time now, our first year with her, and see that I was depressed and filled with so much self-loathing, that I was not being treated for what I know now to be anxiety, and Lottie was this little miracle of a fluff ball that just loved, and loved, and loved, and became my guardian angel.
Winter is her best season.
I can’t help feeling that the time we have left isn’t all together equal. I know that I should appreciate each day, but there are some seasons I love more than others. Months when we are closer, months where I long for those other, crisper days we both prefer.
Something I had started thinking about even before Lottie got sick is how limited our time would always be with her when broken down into those special, specific moments. How many hikes, walks in the park, how many hours sunning ourselves on the porch? How many times shouting Family Parade! as she shadowed us in circles around the house. I didn’t think to count kisses.
Only so many winters left, I thought. Lottie does not become a regular snuggler until at least November. It’s too hot! She’s a twenty-five pound snow beast impervious to the worst January chill. She comes alive in the powder, a kid having the best day of her life. She gets depressed when it rains and refuses to swim (although one time she reluctantly followed me into the bay because she loves me) but will get her paws wet if it means she can gobble up her weight in snow. And yet, as the temperature drops, she spends more and more time in our bed instead of under it. Her favorite spot is right where Bryan’s feet should go, his tall frame curled up to accommodate his best girl. Winter means she’s curled up on the couch with me instead of near me on the floor, in my lap instead of barely close enough to touch. It’s the time of year I get to hold her closest, and it’s my favorite.
During my first trimester, even as she was fighting her own battles, Lottie was the most attentive nurse. She whipped her head around to observe my every sigh and groan, was constantly cuddly even as her kidney-diet-food-dog-breath made me want to hurl, and never left my side.
I want her to meet this baby so bad.
A hallmark of Lottie’s disease and subsequent treatment is that she is nauseous and loses her appetite. Bryan has spent hours each night for weeks now trying to get her to eat, despite the medications she’s on to combat this, only to end up feeding her wet food out of his hand.
Then there was the day she didn’t eat at all, not even chicken, her greatest love.
I know that this is our last winter with Lottie.
She’s still alert and attentive. She barks at the UPS truck and jumps into our arms when we come home, tail wagging. But she also wobbles a little when she walks, and she’s lost a lot of weight, and she seems smaller, everything about her seems smaller. She hasn’t been getting in bed with us, or jumping on the couch. She doesn’t particularly want to be held, and I’m trying not to hold that against her because I want it so bad and she just can’t give it to me. It’s not her fault. I console myself by knowing no amount of snuggling would ever be enough.
I know we will do right by her, however much time she has left, but goddamn if dogs aren’t a particular kind of aching heartbreak.
I would keep her forever if I could. I would.
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We took her out on the porch for the last time, wrapped in a blanket on my lap, and it was snowing.
We said goodbye to our girl today at home. It was hard, but also not hard, because we love her so much, and she was ready to go, and we needed her to feel peace. I held her the whole time, in the glow of the Christmas tree, kissed her through my mask, and without it when I could. When they carried her out of the house, it was snowing, and the snow fell on her soft white head before she was tucked away, out of sight.
The snow is still falling, the first snow, and it makes me feel okay, if I was a believer in signs, which I might be. Because snow was her favorite. She was wild for it, born for it. Today was the right day.
I will miss her forever.
