Dear Penny Love.
Dear Penny Love,
I’ve been worried about losing you since the moment I met you. As time ticked on and the glitter on your face became more apparent, I would often say to myself, “A lifetime with you would not be long enough,” and I was right.
It’s been six days* since you left us and I’m finding it hard to breathe. How do I start to process choosing to end the very best part of the past eleven years? People say choosing home euthanasia is the best gift you can give your pet. My brain understands this, but my heart doesn’t believe it yet. Your passing was planned and it was peaceful. We heeded the advice of everyone around us, who assured us that we would know when the time was right, and we did. Your last day was lovely and when I look back, you absolutely made your rounds. I’m touched by the time you took to visit with everyone, reeling them in with your big brown eyes until they were lying with you, touching you, breathing you in.
And then there is us, your dad and me. We knew your time was coming and we promised each other that we would not make a point of doing the “last” of anything. We felt strongly that we couldn’t jam the final months of your life with moments we’ve experienced together over your lifetime. It’s a concept I feel strongly about not only for dogs but for people as well. We’ve always lived our life in the now and the thought of a bucket list of activities in the final moments feels like we missed the point. And so, sweet Penny Love, here are some of our favorite statistics:
18 continuous months in a van
45 states
27 national parks
7 provinces
5 Canadian border crossings
2 drive-ins
10 cross-country trips
1 horse + buggy tour
4 golf cart rides
2 Tour of CA 🚲
3 Tour of CO 🚲
1 Worlds in Richmond 🚲
25+ nights in a hotel
1 three-day ferry to Alaska (Read It’s a ferry, not a cruise)
More lighthouses + ferry rides than we can count
>700 nights in the van
When we decided where to be for our last moment, I randomly picked some marigolds from our garden. Prior to your last day, the flowers didn’t mean much to me. I knew that I liked them with their bold bright color and simple lines, but beyond that, I didn’t have much connection to them. After you took your final breath and your dad and our home vet placed you in the car to be taken away, a process I simply could not bear witness to, the vet asked if I wanted to include the flowers with you. I didn’t care. I didn’t have an answer. I think I said sure, but then I kept one yellow-gold flower to hold.. After you were gone, I sat where we said goodbye and stared at that flower. After some time, I desperately needed to toss it far away and never see it again.
The next day we went back to the Cape to be with family. In our room was a single yellow-gold marigold. I gasped and smiled and said out loud, “Oh. Hi.” My sister, who had no idea about my experience with marigolds the night before, had picked it for me. And there you were, sweet girl. That’s the first time I made the connection between you and marigolds and it’s been going strong ever since. When I left the Cape, that flower was still there. Once again, I spoke out loud and said, “See you soon, sweet girl,” as I kissed the flower and walked out of the room, not telling my sister that I had left the flower behind. Kristin told me that weeks later the flower was still going strong and she simply couldn’t throw it away while it was still so vibrant. I agreed. When the time came, she buried the flower by the porch, where we gather. And you will rest there, my little flower incarnate.
The person I’ve been most worried about when it came time for you to go was your dad, but you waited. I knew you would. The two of you share one soul, but his soul had been dim for an uncomfortable amount of time, and you waited. You waited until I could see and feel his soul again. You’ve pulled him out of some of his darkest days, and the last thing he did after sharing a piece of bacon with you, as you drifted off to sleep, was to say thank you. It was the most earnest and honest statement I’ve ever heard him utter. It broke me and yet, thank you doesn’t even begin to explain the gratitude that I feel for your influence on him and on us.
The process of your final months, possibly even year, brought your dad and me closer together. I’ve never been more in love with your dad than I am/was in your last days. From our earliest days with you, when you were on the couch nursing your dad back to health after he got hit by a car on his bike, I knew the bond the two of you had. And so, when your final days were coming, I knew it would be your dad who would make the final call of when it would be, and he did. After your lymphoma diagnosis, he made the tough calls and gathered information about our options. He talked to friends and experts. And on that last drive home from the Cape back to Vermont, it was your dad who began to set the scene and the timeframe. You always helped him see everything more clearly, offering a sense of calm and steadfastness. When I leaned in to tell you that we chose a time and that we were ready to help you, you put your face against my face in a way that could only mean thank you. And you did it with the same calm and steadfastness you’ve been offering us for eleven years. Oh, my sweet girl, thank you.
We added Walter, your annoying little brother, to our family eight months before we said goodbye. We knew what we were doing when we decided to get a puppy. We knew he was our overlap dog. We didn’t know that he would be a handful, but we are happy that he is with us…I think. Everyone says he has big shoes to fill, but that’s not true. Your shoes, baby girl, are your shoes and yours alone. Over time Walter will break into his own shoes and yours will remain yours forever. There will never be another Penny Love.
In the immediate days after you left, I found it physically challenging to breathe. We didn’t get your ashes after your passing because there is no place to scatter you or keep you. You have been everywhere. You are everywhere. When I can’t breathe, I try to remember that if I take a deep breath, you’ll be there. I’m trying.
I’ll miss you forever, our sweet Penny Love
*Penny left us on 8/28/23, 17 days after her 11th birthday. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts.
