We Were Snubbed by Our Dead Dog. Twice.
In the 15 years that my dog, Jesse, was alive, I sang him to sleep over 5,000 times. Our ritual began with a question: “Who’s ready for good night loves?”
Jesse would hop off whatever chair he’d been hogging, shake his wavy black-and-white coat, march across the wooden floor and snuggle into the foam pet bed in our bedroom. I’d tuck in beside him, kiss the silky hair on the bridge of his nose and croon an improvised jingle.
I am a terrible singer. People ask me to sit out the birthday song if it is being taped. Still, Jesse adored our good night communions.
I assumed.
There was no cause to question our relationship. Not until I discovered that, after Jesse died, he seemed to be visiting other people.
In life, he could always find his way home, so why did he not visit us in the afterlife?
Child-free by choice, my husband, Jim, and I loved being pup parents. Jesse got romps around Los Angeles. Relaxing vacations in Big Bear. Meaty home-cooked stews. A lap of red wine or yeasty beer off Jim’s finger at cocktail hour. Excessive? Perhaps. When Jesse was still hardy on his 15th birthday, a friend remarked, “He’s got it too good to die.”
We thought so, too, but maybe from his perspective he was living a life of forced labor.
We’d trained Jesse to be an animal therapy dog. Sick kids would squeal with delight when he swaggered into the Ronald McDonald House — a bright distraction as they coped with itchy body casts or a fifth surgery. On visits to the abused children’s shelters, traumatized kids would giggle and chase him as he’d climb their play set and zoom down the slide.
Jesse seemed to like the job. He’d jump out of the car, eager to go inside. Occasionally a mini-thug would pull his tail or poke a finger in his eye. We’d quickly reward his tolerance with a liver treat. After an hour of squawking kids, Jesse might wobble away with exhaustion but he never complained. Then again, he wasn’t much of a talker.
While alive.
When he retired from volunteer work, people would remark at how fit he stayed for a senior. I’d always quip, “The day Jesse refuses a beer will be the day he dies.”
One evening, even a half-teaspoon of frosty Samuel Adams couldn’t entice him to eat.
Cancer. Our baby had few good night loves left.
To ease his passing, we brought a vet to our living room for the euthanasia. We lit vanilla scented candles. Made a crackling fire in the hearth. Surrounded him with plush stuffed animals and poured a large tumbler of tequila on the rocks.
The drink was for me.
Please read the entire article it's fantastic:
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/12/well/family/we-were-snubbed-by-our-dead-dog-twice.html?hp&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=mini-moth®ion=top-stories-below&WT.nav=top-stories-below
= new reply since forum marked as read
Dammitt, got something in my eye...
Ive always considered myself a cat person, until my Wafflez came along...
She's still here, but I've noticed her back legs slipping a few times on the stairs, getting up on the bed, etc. I don't know how old she is and since she's white, there's no way to tell if she's graying. I already know losing her will be one of the biggest heartbreaks of my life...regardless of how many kitties I've loved & lost. I'm bawling at the thought right now.
God Bless our furbabies, they are certainly the best companions we could ask for and never seem to deserve... 
