Being a Death Doula for an Animal Companion
Westerners have a euphemism for when an animal dies -- they're waiting at the Rainbow Bridge. The idea originates from a series of poetry and prose dating back to the 1980-90s that describe a meadow where beloved pets and animals live in youth, health, wholeness and happiness until their human dies. The human appears in the meadow so they can all be reunited and cross the Rainbow Bridge together into whatever exists beyond. Subsequent writings have added that pets that never knew human love, died from abuse or neglect, or were abandoned or euthanized because they were no longer wanted, would meet with one of those exceptional people that would simply say, "Come on, you belong with us now."
I would probably be that person. My family and my partners always refer to me as Snow White.
I currently have a twenty year old super senior dog named Brandy that will not last forever. I always think this Winter will be her last and then hope that she'll go sleeping peacefully in the heat of the sun in Summer. I take pictures of her almost every day because I never know when it's going to be the last one I take. But, then, I take pictures of all my menagerie quite frequently. I love them all and I will tend to them till their very last breath. But this isn't about my living companions.
This is about Remington Steals, who passed away in the very early hours of the morning, and those companions in my life who went before him. My extremely talkative Remington -- otherwise known affectionately as puppy-cat (because he actually wagged his tail when I talked to him and I was looking at leash training him to walk outside), Fat Boy, and asshole -- became suddenly ill Sunday evening. He made it through the next forty-eight hours showing some improvement, but last night he became very weak. All he could do was twitch his tail for me as I talked to him. "Who's mama's puppy-cat?" Twitch. "You're my handsome boy." Twitch. "You know mama loves you very much, right?" Twitch.
I had been sleeping on the couch with him since Sunday night because I didn't want him on the stairs when he wanted water or to lay on the cool tiles in the bathroom. I made a nest for him on my blanket and tucked myself around him so that he was warm and comforted. His sister Onyx slept on my pillow with us. Brandy slept on her bed at the foot of the couch. He died in his sleep surrounded by females that tolerated his boorish behaviour because we loved him very much. I woke up early this morning to take my time petting his silky soft fur and to let his stillness and silence sink in. Then I wrapped him in a blanket and removed him before the rest of the household woke up to find him. Not everyone can handle seeing the dead.
This isn't my first time sitting vigil with a companion. I'm fond of rescuing senior citizens and those who may not have very long to live, usually due to neglect or abuse. They deserve even a few hours of love, compassion, and the comfort of knowing they won't die alone. I've cradled animals as they've taken their last breaths, tucked them into my bed to pass in their sleep next to me, laid down and held their paws while the vet watched quietly, and even held my stethoscope to their chest to hear the last beat of their heart. I was never sad in the moment; I was too focused on letting them know I was there and that it was okay to let go when they were ready. My parents, who were also huge animal lovers, always taught me that this last act was as much my responsibility to tend to their needs as feeding them every morning. Helping an animal pass over is both easier and harder than it is with a human. All they want is your presence, your touch, your voice. They just want to hear that song you sing to them or that they're a good boy one more time. They just want comfort. At the same time, they can't talk to us. Often they can't even tell us they're in pain, so their deaths are unexpected. They can't tell us what they actually need to make this transition easier for them. They can't tell us that we're the "good boys"; look at us being loyal and faithful till the very end. Grieving the loss of a companion often means feeling like we failed them completely because we could have done more if we'd only been able to.
This clearly won't be the last time I do this. Right now we have a dog, another cat, two gerbils, four fish, and a handful of snails that I tend to. Each of them will grow old or sick and need me to tend to them one last time. In time the spaces that they leave behind will be filled with more companions that need rescuing into a loving home. My heart isn't hardened to grief anymore than it is to love, so I simply accept that I will continue to do this until my turn for comforting at the end. If my partners weren't so firm in their boundaries about not being able to deal with so many deaths, I would probably have a senior and hospice sanctuary like Silver Muzzle Cottage or The Promised Land Dachshund Sanctuary. Maybe that's a goal for when I'm ready to pass from Mother into Crone.
