I missed a call on the 3rd from a friend that usually doesn't call, so I knew something serious was going on. My immediate thought was, "It's either [abusive ex-boyfriend] or River." The former because she's my ex's brother's ex (that's how we met!), but still has occasion to see him sometimes, since she goes to his favorite bar sporadically; and the latter because I rehomed River with her two years ago.
That's right. I said before how I had to make the right choices with respect to her when I was in Indiana. I did my best to do the same once I moved to Seattleish. And there reached a point where I was working so much and my commute was so long that she was locked up/alone for far more than is fair for any dog, let alone one with her energy level. These are the two last pictures I took of her when she still lived with me:
I thought she was making funny faces at me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized this was pretty much the only face she was making anymore.
She was miserable. And even though it wasn't really a fault of mine, it was my responsibility to do something about it.
Mina, the friend I mentioned above, was working as a bartender at the time, and thus had hours far more conducive to spending quality time with River every day. River adored her (she's actually one of the few females River was clingy with- she usually gravitated towards dudes when I had people over, but she always hovered around Mina when she visited with that ex-kinda-brother-in-law), and she adored River, and was really good with animals and had a great head on her shoulders about them (even worked at a pet store every now and then to help her friend, the owner, out).
So when I posted something about finding a new home for River on Facebook and Mina responded, I jumped on it- I knew River would be happy (once she got over me leaving her), loved, and well cared for.
So I did it. It was a million times harder and more painful than leaving that abusive ex. But I did it, because it was the best thing for her. My living situation/lifestyle was unfair to her, and I had to make the right choice as a parent. I couldn't take care of her anymore, not in the way she deserved and needed. And I knew Mina could and would.
I was a mess for a few weeks after- I spent maybe one or two nights at home alone because it hurt so much to not have her in bed with me. Instead, I spent as much time at my boyfriend's, or him at mine, as I could possibly muster.
Ironically, due to happenstance, I ended up moving in with them a few months later as I waited for my his lease to be up so he and I could move in together.
And boy was she salty at first. Which is classic River. LOOK AT THIS FACE, THIS IS THE FACE OF UTTER DISDAIN:
In the background, there, you can see Kashyyyk, the puppy one of the other peeps at the house got not too long after I moved in. River was so good with him, it was adorable to see them together. But anyway, I took this one day as I was trying to get her to join me on the couch. She refused. Which says a lot about how hurt she was, given the plethora of pictures my Facebook had been loaded with of her literally laying on top of me.
It took her almost half a year to deign to sit next to me, and one night that Mina was out of town and I tried to get River to sleep in my room, she wouldn't. Even after moving out, I'd come over to spend time with Mina (and River!!!), and she'd let me pet her and stuff, but she wouldn't sit next to me (let alone on me). And she wasn't nearly as enthusiastic about me showing up than she'd been when I'd get home before rehoming her, nor as she'd get when guests, even ones she was familiar with, would show up.
In other words, I don't think she ever forgave me. And even though I know I did the right thing, and that Mina was the absolute best dog mom I could have found, that will always hurt. She had been my baby girl, the entire center of my world, and she remained bitter about me giving her up. And no, I don't blame her for this- honestly, her ability to act so human was one of the things I'll always love about her.
So that phone call on the 3rd. I returned it, and Mina told me that River had an inoperable tumor. That she was in a lot of pain. That the best thing was to let her go, and she, Mina, wanted me there, and that River probably would, too.
So I dropped everything and went. To hell with social distancing.
When I got there, she was an entirely different dog. She looked ten years older, with grey hair and patches where she was almost bald. The tumor was in her stomach area, and while I had thought she had just grown chonky (which is apparently what Mina and her usual vet thought at first, too), it was actually the tumor itself, collecting all of her blood. And as I got closer, I could tell- the rest of her was rail thin and waif-like, but her torso was huge. Her eyes were the saddest I'd ever seen them. Her movement was slow and ginger, like every step hurt.
This is my last picture of her.
I don't know if she could tell she was dying, or if it was the painkillers she was on, but she was a lot more willing to receive affection and attention from me. I hope it was more like she was willing to put the pain I put her through aside and accept the love I was trying to show her. It's selfish, but I'm grateful for it. I wouldn't be surprised if it was because she sensed I needed that. She was always good at telling what her hoomans needed.
We spent some time together, Mina and I going back and forth between hugging each other and crying and hugging River and crying, and eventually, it came time to take her. My boyfriend had arrived by then, and I asked him to drive, since God knows I wouldn't be able to. He did so, a fucking champ and hero, and I would not have made it through all of that without him.
They let Mina and me be with her. And even when in immense pain, even when barely there, she was still....
Just so River.
To start, the first dose of anesthesia wasn't enough. Just when Mina and I thought she was asleep, the nurse knocked and she grunted in the way she did when she was annoyed, her, "Ex-CUSE me, sir/madam?" We laughed.
Then, even once asleep, the nurse could not find her vein to insert the catheter- just so damn stubborn! This also brought a few chuckles. The vet had to do it, and even she seemed to have more trouble than she wanted to admit.
And then, she was gone. Mina and I stayed with her after it was over for a good twenty minutes. And as we were walking out...
...I could smell one of her dank farts. As if she was saying goodbye with style, a style particular to her.
And it made me laugh, through the tears. Through the sobs I was shaking with, I laughed.
And that, that was River.
She was silly. She was goofy. She was sweet. She was exceptionally empathetic.
And she crop dusted with the skill of a stealth assassin.
She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. This is her in that same sweater, the first one I ever got her:
I'm so, so grateful she and Mina found each other. One of the comforts I've taken in this, and something I remind Mina of when she needs it (and Mina, if you're reading this, I mean it), is that her time with Mina was filled with joy and love. Mina fell in love with her just as I had, and cared for her as if River was her own kid, too. She, too, made sacrifices for River's sake, because she was being the best parent she knew how. River loved her, so much, and it was obvious to anyone who didn't know her, and especially obvious to me, someone that knew her so well. I saved River once, but when I was failing her, Mina saved her again.
River was one of the best things to have ever happened to me. I'm having a hard time finishing this in a cohesive way, but I think the best I can do is say I'll always miss her. I had to say goodbye once, and while at first, I thought that made this easier, I think I was kidding myself.
Because it hurts. It hurts so much.
I've gone back and read old posts in which she features heavily, and they've made me laugh. If you're interested, check these out, too:
About a month after she came home with me.
She used to make me feel better.
River poopin'.
I was lucky to have her.
I talk here a bit about cuddling with her in bed.
She managed to make a super deep moment for me hilarious.
Fighting with mosquitos while waking your dog is rough, yo.
River hears neighbors banging (not on doors) and gets confused.
Again, River helped me choose happiness.
Goodbye, River. You were the perfect dog for me. I'm sorry I couldn't be the perfect mom for you. I did my best, and even though it hurt you, I had to do right by you. So I'm happy you found Mina- she was the best mom you could have had once I let you down. We'll both always love you.
I'm glad the pain is gone. Do lots of zoomies in the clouds, and roll around on your back as much as you want now.
But don't stink up heaven too much with your flatulence, ok? No innocent look will get you off the hook, young lady!
I stand corrected.
I love you, River. Goodbye, sweet girl.
For those hoping for some righteous indignation about the current political situation and some sort of treatise on the particular breed of hypocrisy and violence embedded in the American State nowadays... Sorry. This post isn't really going to be political*. It's going to be personal (and not in the "the personal is political" way, but the legit "this is my heart" kind of way).
In a previous post, before talking about getting rid of an abusive ex, I talked about my dad. He died two Septembers ago. He took his own life. And in that post, I explained how Christmas had been tainted for me, that when I was little, it was the stuff a Norman Rockwell painting- joy and togetherness and warmth. But when I got older, too much life happened, and as Dad's decline grew steeper and steeper, Christmas became more and more miserable.
What I didn't bring up is Independence Day. On the Fourth, Dad would somehow manage to get himself out of bed (or off the couch- after a certain point, he stopped sleeping in the bedroom), make a nice breakfast for everyone (I think Dad liked making breakfast more than grilling, to be honest- as things got worse, he stopped grilling way before he stopped making pancakes), and start getting The Meat ready for the grill by late afternoon. He would at least pretend to be happy, and turn back into the Dad of the Year Edition of himself. If there was a video game for us to play, we'd sit around and he'd take turns with me and my two sisters (or just me and my younger sis- my older sister stopped coming home pretty early on in everything) in shooting whatever zombies or solving whatever puzzles there were with the same enthusiasm as before he fell apart. There wasn't fighting. There wasn't anger. There wasn't malice. He was funny, charming, warm. He was sober.
It was like time had shifted, or he alone had, like his old self would inhabit his current body for the day. A part of me knew he was acting, but it just made me love him more- because he was doing it for everyone else. I've only grown to understand that more, having grappled with my own mental illness and had to put on a face for people, too. Masks aren't for you, they're for the ones you love.
And I clung to that. Even if every other day, we barely spoke, or he was never sober enough to remember what we talked about by the time I was twenty-two, there, there was the proof he still cared, in how alive he was on the Fourth. The real act was when he made it seem like he didn't care. And I know that was for me, too- pushing me away out of his shame, his disgust with his own self. I know he didn't think he deserved any of us. He blamed himself for everything that happened to our family- from diagnoses to finances. I even have wondered if he blames himself for me being raped in grad school- I remember him mumbling something about how he "should have taught me to be safer" or something like that during the trip home where I told him and Mom; at the time, I took it more as a victim-blaming thing, but I really don't believe that anymore. Because while it was kind of funny and eye-roll-worthy as a kid, his tendency to take responsibility, to be a martyr, was what drove his depression so far.
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Fireworks.
Man, Dad loved fireworks. And the big ones, too. Not the little dinky ones the Boy Scouts sell. Nono, we're talking rockets and explosives, the illegal kind you have to drive to a Reservation to get. Fireworks were Dad's Thing, I would say even more so than the grill (or breakfast) (in the sense that he took so much pleasure in fireworks). And he was smart about it- he would start making trips to the Rez in like February, so that by the time Spring was over and cops started randomly searching trunks for contraband (i.e. in anticipation of people smuggling fireworks into town), he was done and wouldn't have to worry. Even if we couldn't afford steaks, we always, always had a great fireworks display on the Fourth.
I like to describe the fireworks on our block the way Christmas decorations get shown on TV/in movies sometimes. You know what I'm talking about, how it's a sign of status or awesomeness to have a huge Christmas display on the lawn, and competition between neighbors is sometimes a subplot (if not the main plot) of Christmas movies/shows. Well, by our third summer in our house (I would have just finished seventh grade), our neighbors were actively trying to best him with their own fireworks displays. But every year, he'd still have the very best fireworks of the block. It got to the point where our neighbors would kind of crowd nearish to our house to watch ours- they'd set up their lawn chairs and wait for Dad to finish before going back in front of their own houses to do whatever they had.
One of my last Summers in Vegas, one of the last before the divorce, our next door neighbor knocked on the door an hour or so before sunset. He had a huge sack in one hand and a six-pack of Coors in the other. He asked to talk to Dad, so Dad politely stepped out onto the porch with him and shut the door- Dad was always good at reading people, and he could tell our neighbor had something big to talk to him about. When Dad came back inside, our neighbor was gone, and Dad was holding the bag and beer.
Mom and I both kind of charged him, talking over each other but asking similar questions, and Dad shut us up by setting the beer down and opening the sack- it was filled with a LOT of expensive, fancy Rez fireworks, the same sort Dad liked. He explained that there was a health emergency in our neighbor's family- nothing super life-threatening, but our neighbor needed to go to the hospital right away. He didn't want the fireworks to go to waste, and he "couldn't think of a better place to put them than in the hands of The King." Yes, my Dad was "The King of Fireworks" amongst our neighbors, apparently, and the six-pack was a "tribute." The guy had also said he "was sorry he wasn't going to see what The King was gonna do this year," too.
Dad was so damn proud.
[I'm having trouble reading my typing, here, because of how much the whole memory means to me, but especially this moment. The big grin on his face, the way he kind of puffed up his chest to be funny, but how there was a significant part of him that so meant it. ]
I remember us all calling him, "Your Majesty," the rest of the night- once we got outside, my little brother even gestured with a wave of his arm and a bow to Dad's chair for viewing once each firework was lit and said, "Yoah fwoan, Yoah Majesty!"
It was... perfect.
And most telling, he didn't open that pack of beer until he had put the last firework in the water bucket. I told him I was proud of that as we were going inside, and he mumbled something and turned away- but not before I saw his eyes water.
-------
So, Fourth of July. It hurts.
Because I miss him, so fucking much.
I still regret not reconciling with him.
I still smile remembering the one time he accidentally dropped a smoke bomb or something, and it kind of popped and he squealed like a little kid as he ran.
I still remember the last time I saw him, and my chest tightens.
I still giggle when I think of all the times he snuck me over to his closet when Mom was busy to whisper conspiratorily and show me his latest haul from the Rez once his personal buying season started. Like Mom didn't know what he was up to. Hah.
But the moment I start thinking of "doing something" for the Fourth, I just want to cry. I feel hollow again, like I did when Mom told me what happened. The more I think about it, the farther I move from "want to cry" to "actually crying." If I think long enough, I start sobbing.
I don't know when I'll be able to genuinely enjoy a Fourth of July without putting on a mask, or at least pushing something down deep. Maybe never. Dad is gone, and fireworks will never be the same for me. And honestly? I'm not sure if I want them to.
*Although yeah, if you know me or this blog, you know I could totally write the shit out of a post about that.
