Tomorrow

I’m the early riser in our family. Michelle gets up a couple of hours after me. I went on my usual run that morning and got back home around 5:30 am. When I opened the door, I felt a dagger plunge straight into my heart. I saw Michelle sitting on the edge of the couch, and I immediately knew.

There was no other reason for her to be up that early. She told me the vet called and said Gus’s heart stopped last night. They tried to revive him but couldn’t.

They say that you never fully get over your first love. I’m pretty sure that I will never fully get over my first dog, and Gus was the first dog that I ever had. His addition started our transition from a couple to a family. And now he’s gone.

Gus had surgery to open his airway. It’s not an unusual operation for a bulldog because they have naturally restricted airways. I had just dropped him off with the vet less than a day ago. If I had known that was the last time I would ever see him, I would have given him the greatest belly rub of all time. The kind that would make him squirm and roll all over the floor in glee. The kind where when I hit his tickle spot just below his ribs, his back leg would pulsate like a jackhammer. Then, I would’ve hugged him so tightly it would have taken the Jaws of Life to separate us.

I miss the obvious things like when I would take him for a walk and the neighborhood kids would run from across the street and ask if they could pet my dog. Every morning when I came home from my run, I would wake Gus up when I opened our squeaky front door. I still expect to hear his bark every time I open that door, but now all I hear is lonely silence. I’ll miss the way he used to sit in the front window, rest his big bowling ball head on the window sill and bark at every person that walked by or delivered a package to our door. When I come in the front door now, I still expect to his see face in the window, but all I see is his empty bed.

I’ll also miss the weird things like every time I put down the mat to do yoga at home, Gus would dart in from whatever room he had previously been lounging and sit right in the middle of my yoga mat. I’ll never know why he loved that mat so much, but I had to develop my own system of yoga that looked like a modified version of Bulldog Twister because he looked so happy sitting there that I didn’t have the heart to make him move.

Even the smallest things make me sad. I just started the round of “lasts.” I just washed his blanket for the last time. I cleaned his food bowl for the last time. I picked up his poop in the backyard for the last time. You know you have a special relationship when picking up their poop for the last time makes you sad.

This was Ella’s first experience with death. I’ve told her that my dad died and isn’t with us in person anymore. I’m still not sure how fully she grasps this concept. When I told her that the doctor couldn’t fix Gus and that Gus was never coming home, she asked “Is Gus dead?”

“Yes, sweetheart, Gus is dead” I replied.

I saw her lower lip start to grow and quiver, and I thought she was going to cry when she replied, “Can we get another pet? I want a unicorn. A baby unicorn. I’m going to name her Rainbow.”

Ok, good death talk. She’s moved on, I thought. But then she asked, “Who is going to take care of Gus in heaven? Is Jackie (my dad) going to take care of Gus?”

I just said, “Yes, baby. Jackie will take care of him.” I didn’t want to get into the theological discussion of whether or not animals go to heaven. This didn’t seem like the appropriate time to take a piss in her emotional bowl of Crunch Berries.

Gus and Ella seemed to have more of a sibling rivalry than a friendship. Every time I got the leash out to take Gus for a walk, Ella would ask if she could come. She would also get mad at him several times a week when he chewed one of her toys. She never really played with him that much, so we weren’t always sure that Ella and Gus bonded like a child and their dog should. But two days after Gus died, I was driving her to school and I heard from the backseat, “Daddy, we don’t have a pet anymore. I miss Gus.”

Then, a couple of days later during bathtime, Ella said, “Mommy, my little brother is dead.” Yeah, now I know their bond was stronger than I thought. I know she had to learn this lesson at some point. I was just hoping it would happen a few years later.

I remember having a discussion with a friend about which is worse, losing a loved one slowly or losing them unexpectedly. I’ve been on both sides of this equation, and the answer is they both suck immensely. When they go suddenly, the shock suffocates you, but it passes with time. The regret stays with you. There is always something else you feel like you should’ve done or said before they left.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I didn’t get to say goodbye. No belly rub. No hug. I dropped Gus off at the surgery center where he had surgery two days prior so they could keep him under observation as a precaution. When the assistant took Gus from me, she said I would be able to pick him up tomorrow morning or afternoon. So, I grabbed both floppy cheeks, put his face to mine, and said “I’ll pick you up tomorrow, little buddy.”

But tomorrow never came.