When the tears won’t stop

The clay imprint of Rio’s paw is displayed in our front room. The Weed says he often goes over to it, touches it, and says ‘Hello’ to Rio.

It hit me Saturday night.

The raw, true emotion of Rio’s absence. I started crying and couldn’t stop.

Since we made the euthanasia decision Thursday, The Weed had been walking through the house with tears in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks. By Friday morning, his face was constantly flushed with sadness.

I guess I felt like I needed to be the one not crying that day. So, I kept biting the inside of my cheek and telling myself what my dad said to do: ‘Stay strong.’

When the veterinarian arrived Friday morning, I walked into our driveway to greet her, shake her hand. I ushered her into the house and tried to be as forthright as possible.

When the vet was with Rio, I sat beside our sick little dog, petting her, trying to reassure her even though she was scared. I wanted her to be calm and quiet. She licked my face several times and looked plaintively into my eyes.

‘Stay strong …’

When her heart stopped, I felt it. She was gone. My strength was gone. I cried. I kept petting her little body as tears ran down.

When the vet put Rio on a stretcher and loaded her into the car, I cried. I bit my cheek and tried to stop. I did the best I could.

When the vet grabbed me and hugged me harder than I have been hugged in years, I continued crying.

When The Weed and I entered the house for the first time without our girl there to greet us, we hung on each other. Sobbed.

Eventually, my tears stopped that day. I kept telling myself ‘Stay strong’ as I gathered Rio’s pillow and blanket and put them in the garbage can. Seeing her pillow in the bedroom was too difficult. I couldn’t wake up to that every morning. If only I’d known waking up to her pillow being gone would be even more difficult.

It’s the little reminders like her pillow that trigger me. Her leash hanging on the back of the door. The water bowls that needed to be refilled frequently because Rio liked her water fresh. The cardboard boxes she loved to destroy are now stacked up in the pantry. Unmarred.

Bravo had a seizure Friday afternoon. He was sick throughout the night. By Saturday, I was sure he wasn’t going to make it without Rio around. We took him for a walk and he looked for her. He stopped by a bush in the front yard where Rio often chased rabbits. He smelled the bush, dropped his head and plodded on. We all plodded on.

Fortunately, a kind man who lives nearby has visited Bravo a few times with his sweet puppy, Pixie. When Pixie runs through our door straight to Bravo, the energy in the house is better. Bravo even tolerates her little dances around his face. He flaps his ears like elephants do when he’s happy. We call this his ‘happy ears.’ We have seen the ‘happy ears’ a few times recently. I think he’s doing better.

As for me, I’m not there yet. I don’t know why I couldn’t stop crying Saturday night, replaying Rio’s death in my head.

I thought I had processed it. She was in pain. Strong medications were not helping. She would have tolerated the pain just to be with us. It wasn’t fair to her.

I think what triggered my tears was The Weed saying: ‘I completely underestimated the size of the hole she would leave.’

It’s true. For a 70-pound yellow dog, Rio’s personality and spirit were outsized.

She had a happiness about her.

A piece of Rio will always be with me and The Weed in our hearts. Physically, she’s gone and that’s what hurts so much now.

All we have left is a clay imprint of her paw. We have it displayed on a table in the front room.

The Weed told me he says ‘Hello’ to Rio frequently, walking over to the clay imprint and touching it.

We will receive her ashes in a week or so. We have started talking about where to bury her.

There are several special places. I hope we get this right.

She was such a special dog. As I said before, she came into my life at a difficult time and saved me mentally and physically.

I miss her so much.