Ivy’s Garden

I’ve been asking questions of my pain. What is it here to teach me? Because I know it’s not nothing.

The tightness in my chest every time I miss her.

I swept up dirt this morning, and it was only dirt. Dirt where there used to be a pile of soft, white hairs. How we marveled at the amount of fur we swept up every day—and now, only dirt. The absence of her is immense.

She dragged her little paws when she walked, a sound that always reminded me of grandma slippers. That sliding of her feet on the floor echoed through my entire life and home. She followed me everywhere. I was her security, and that gave me such immeasurable joy. Her soft love. Her squishy, gentle love, shadowing me wherever I went. The absence of her is almost unbearable.

We knew it was coming. For months, I checked on her multiple times a day to make sure she hadn’t passed in her sleep. That was our hope—a peaceful release in her precious puppy dreams.

She had stopped walking with me, choosing to stay behind. Even if I put her on a leash, she would balk and return to the yard to wait for me. Her hips were bad, and it hurt her. I know she stayed longer than she probably would have if her body had been in control. But Ivy lived from her heart.

One of the first quotes I read after becoming a deaf-dog mom was, “Deaf dogs hear with their hearts.” And Ivy proved this to me.

On Tuesday, we were having lunch in the kitchen when she came skootching in. The moment our eyes met, I knew. I didn’t want to know it, but it was undeniable. Something was wrong.

She wandered into the guest room, where she never goes, circled aimlessly, then looked at us—confused, in pain. She was trembling and listless when she made her way to the utility room and lay down by the dryer. I thought she was going to die right there. Maybe it was a stroke or heart failure. Maybe the angels were coming for her, and she was trying to stay.

We didn’t want to leave each other.

Rodney and I had already agreed that we would do right by her when the time came. We weren’t going to try and prolong her life and we would pray that she would let us know when it was time. And, we knew it. Even when we fought with ourselves and struggled to make the decision, we remembered what we had promised to her and to each other. 

I had been catching her watching me as much as I was watching her, like we both knew our time was short and wanted to drink in every moment.

And I knew I was in for it.

A soul dog. A deaf angel in a dog suit. The purest love.

And I gave myself over to it.

Have your way with me, grief, because I know you are love.

Let my heart break wide open because I want to honor this sacred connection. Besides, how could I stop it anyway? I might as well surrender to it.

I am a different person because of her.

She was one of my greatest teachers in this life.

The vet that helped her cross over was the sweetest guide across the rainbow bridge and we were so thankful for her kindness. She spoke to Ivy and, Ivy loved it when people did that. She pretty much loved everything about life but, mostly us…and campfires…and sunsets and naps and cuddles and, being vacuumed. Gosh I can hardly think of all the things in which she relished. 

My own breath caught in my chest when she took her last. An experience like no other. The vet said her heart kept beating for a full ten seconds after her final breath. I wasn’t surprised.

Our hearts, linked forever.

She stayed as long as she could in her precious body, with us.

It was my favorite place—us.

The way she gave Rodney and me permission to be gooey and soft. We poured our love into her, heaped it on by the ton. Once, Rodney told me he loved me so much he would need a tractor to move it.

And that is how much we loved this dog.

A bulldozer couldn’t have moved it.

Immense. Holy. Sacred.

This dog.

I have a million stories, a million moments, all gathered up into a beautiful memory that will last me a lifetime. And yet, I just feel so privileged to have been her home.

We were made for each other.

I’m so thankful, so wrung out with love and grief.

If I could have kept one forever, it would have been her.

My friend Kathy told me, “You were her angel, and now she will be yours.”

And I feel that so much.

I miss her physical presence in the most tangible way—like missing a limb. But I feel her with me in an even more profound way. The eternal love kind of way.

When I first saw her picture for sale on Facebook, my breath caught in my chest.

I thought about that yesterday when I remembered how intensely her last breath took mine.

Something so poetic and beautiful about our lives intertwining between simple breaths—firsts and lasts.

Isn’t that profound?

We buried her in the yard and will make a beautiful garden. Ivy’s Garden.

All our love for her, poured into creating something new, something alive.

Aren’t we precious?

God, I love my life.

I love that I got to be in love with a squishy, sweet, deaf dog and that I get to grieve her now.

The beauty yet to come from this experience is still unfolding, and I get to be part of it. I get to let it grow me.

My heart is so much more beautiful for having loved her.