Monday, May 25, 2020

O Captain! My Captain!



The same post title as one we began with, nearly twelve years ago. A line from the movie Dead Poet’s Society, from a poem by Walt Whitman. And one that pretty much in many ways sums up the despair of losing a great Captain. I will forever have enormous love, respect, and awe for my dog Captain. 


First, I want to thank everyone who has followed this blog, and later the Facebook page. I am amazed and heart warmed to hear of so many who have been following Captain’s story for so long. I have read every comment, and they have helped me in this time. It makes me smile to know Captain even inspired some of you to welcome these wonderful dogs into your lives, too. As for what’s next for this blog, I pretty much stopped posting once we had “Nugget 3” (my second daughter) and our careers and lives got more demanding. But, I could see picking it up again at some point- so drop by every now and then if you like. If nothing else, this is a place to explore all the wonderful adventures we had with Captain. I also plan to keep posting on the Facebook page; everyone needs some Vizsla love. 

I ventured into blogging when we got Captain based on a suggestion from my husband, clumsily and without any tech or photography skills (never really developing either!). It took a little while to find my voice and style. I never had the most amazing design, but I did have (what felt like to me) the most amazing story to tell about a dog named Captain.  

Of course in telling Captain’s story, I’ve been telling our family’s; mine. Our lives are so intertwined, and that is one reason it is so very hard to say goodbye. Letting go of Captain also feels like letting go of a large part of my life- a pretty good one at that. A life in California filled with hikes, beautiful scenery, road trips up and down the coast, and large chunks of time at beautiful parks simply enjoying being outside and watching dogs play. Now, we’re in this stage of our lives when everything feels full speed; we have both careers that are demanding and that require our full attention, and children that do as well. In some ways, though, the pandemic helped to slow that all down again, and though it’s not exactly (at all!) carefree time like it was, I will be grateful that at the very least, we were here all day, every day with Captain in his last months, and not rushing off to leave him alone. 


I can’t sugar coat the last two weeks with Captain. It was hard. He got old and sick quickly (the story of the diagnosis is here). Which I suppose is better than a long decline; he was youthful and healthy for most of his life. I am grateful for every cuddle we got with him. I am happy I got to play the role of caregiver to him in those last weeks, feeding him salmon and sweet potatoes and chicken, out of my hand, since that is the only way he’d eat. But the second week was harder.  

When someone you love gets old and sick, it’s hard, because they aren’t the same someone you’ve loved for so long. They are skinny, weak, and tired, and look uncomfortable. When my grandfather was in the hospital, we went to see him just before he passed, and he was laying there in his bed. I didn’t want that as my last memory of him. He was incredibly smart and talented, and a beautiful calming presence with a light-hearted sense of humor, not unlike my own father. I have so many other memories of him, and those are the ones I’ll take. 

It’s the same for Captain. He got very skinny, and moved slower. But to me he’ll always be the strong, speedy runner; the bird-and-squirrel stalker. I will remember him running back and forth between my husband and I on California beaches and big green fields. I’ll remember his ears flapping in the wind on Chrissy Field and Golden Gate bridge in the background. I’ll remember him vigorously digging in the sand and then sticking his entire head in the hole, sniffing deeply, and then sneezing. I’ll remember him carrying around his blankie and then “attacking” it. I’ll remember all the little sounds he made. I’ll remember the way he tilted his head and stared at me. I’ll remember the way his entire body would wiggle in excitement when we opened the door (wiggle butt!), the way he’d lean into someone for a good butt scratch, the way he nudged my arm, and the way his body felt against mine as we were laying on the couch together. I’ll remember that first moment I held him in my arms and we drove back to our little apartment with him, bringing him into our lives forever.

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Captain undoubtedly changed me for the better, perhaps even more than any human (or just as much as a select few). He just added so much to my life. I hope that he knew how deeply he was loved. There is simply no way to thank our dogs enough for all that they give us. They have such a wonderful power to bring so much joy to our lives. It’s funny, I was never a “dog person.” I think really, I’m a “Captain person.” But he also made me a Vizsla person (clearly). 


I didn’t exactly realize it at the time, but there are so many ways Captain brought my husband and I together, too. In those last 2 weeks and perhaps even more so in his passing, he made us really and truly connect again. I remember during that first week after the diagnosis thinking how special Captain was, how when our eyes would lock I would feel this deep connection, deeper than I had with maybe any human. But I guess I also forgot I even could have that connection with people, in some ways. Maybe dogs are just better at it, at picking up on the subtleties of behavior and emotion, or maybe it’s only in times of intense emotions that humans actually stop and recognize these things, whereas our dogs are always tuned into us. But in our immense grief, there were so many moments in the past few weeks, and now after, when I have known exactly what my husband is thinking and feeling. When we would look at each other, or even just feel each other’s body language, and know. And I suppose, even though it is in sadness, that is just another gift Captain has given us. 

During his last weeks, there were several nights when Captain would stay in the girls’ room after bedtime. My husband and I joked about it – “I didn’t think he even really liked them that much.” It may have been he simply was too tired to get up, but the other explanation- the one I will undoubtedly tell my girls when we are telling stories about Captain years from now- is that he knew he was leaving soon and he wanted to watch over them. One night I came up, hearing the girls still talking much after they should have been asleep, prepared to give an exhausted plea for them to go to just sleep already, but then I saw Nugget 2 petting Captain, and I stopped to just take it in. There were several moments of sweetness like this throughout the last weeks. I hope they remember them, too, as I will. 

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On the Wednesday a week and a half after the ultrasound, we made the call to the vet to bring him in the next day. It had become clear Captain was not going to get better, that he couldn’t hold on much longer, and in fact that holding on may become very uncomfortable. When we saw the first vet, I started crying at home because I just couldn’t imagine putting Captain to sleep. I couldn’t come to terms with the idea of being the one to decide when his life ended. I couldn’t see how I could go through with it. How could I know for sure he wouldn’t get better? How could it not feel like killing him? I suppose Captain took that worry from me, because he left us before we had to take that hard step. He was, in so many ways, it seems, stronger than us.

That night my husband slept downstairs with him in the living room, because we didn’t want him to have to navigate the stairs (and any Vizsla owner knows they can’t sleep alone). At around 4:30 in the morning he came upstairs to get me: “I don’t think he’s going to make it much longer.” 

I quickly came downstairs. We were both scared and didn’t know what to do. We whispered, while holding him, about whether we should call an emergency clinic. It wouldn’t have been enough time. We sat with him as his breathing intensified and then, was quiet. And in that moment we both knew, he had left us. Captain was gone. I held him in my arms for I don’t know how long, not wanting to let go. I kissed those beautiful ears. And we both cried. We sobbed. 

A few hours later, my girls woke up and were coming down the stairs, as I was heading up. We stopped, meeting mid-way. I was expecting them to immediately ask for breakfast, as they usually do. But Nugget 3 said, “We’re just going to check on Captain.” And I inhaled deeply, not knowing what I was supposed to say. I responded in a quiet voice, “Oh sweetheart. He’s not with us anymore.”  

And she asked, “Is Captain in heaven?” 

“Yes.” I said. Nugget 2 ran up the stairs and starting wailing and crying in her bed, not understanding why she couldn’t see him. Our attention was forced back to the role of parenting small kids again.

Later that day, Nugget 2 asked me “Can we just get another Vizsla puppy and name him Captain?” 

And I responded, as I had in my head earlier to the question of another dog: “There will be only one Captain. Maybe there will be another dog at some point, but there will only be one Captain.” I knew that any dog that may come along in the future will be compared to Captain, and they will not live up to his standard. He will forever be my first dog, and my best companion.

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There is just such a tremendous emptiness without Captain. I walk around the house thinking I am about to see him. I hear something that sounds like his toenails on the floor. I have walked by his empty water bowl so many times and thought, “I need to fill that.”  I see the space where his bed was, his kennel there but him not in it. There is this gap on our couch as we sit on it. It all just feels so wrong. So lonely. 

Captain has been with us at every memory and turn and step of the way for the past 11 years and 9 months. It is impossible to summarize all the ways his loss will be felt. I will miss my running buddy. I will miss the cuddles, and nudges, the stare-downs and wiggles. I will miss just knowing he’s there. I want so badly to hold him again, to feel his body laying against mine on the couch. To kiss his incredible ears. I know that I can’t, and that is the worst and most painful part of life I guess- being forced to let go of those we love.

We enter into this contract when we get a dog, knowing there is no way they can live as long as us, but somewhere along the journey we seem to forget that critical detail. That first week we had Captain, I was reading the book Marley and Me. I remember being on the stairmaster in the gym of our apartment building early one morning, reading the last chapter, and starting to cry at the thought of one day losing this amazing little puppy that was about to become the center of our lives.  

Nugget 3, at least, is providing some levity in this hard time. She seems somewhat oblivious to the grief, but in an innocent way. She has this light, uplifting attitude, and is always saying and doing the funniest things, and that’s just an enormous comfort right now. She loves stealing my phone to look at (or, ahem, take) pictures. The other day she told me, “Mommy, I am going to remember Captain. I’ll just look at pictures of him and think of him in my head.” I smiled and told her that’s exactly what we needed to do. 

Looking through our photos, I do feel proud of the life we gave him. I am proud of who he was and how he touched so many people’s lives. I am so glad he had so much time as the center of our attention; five solid years before any other nuggets! We would literally plan our weekends around him. We went to “puppy socials” and spent hours at the dog park every day; we sought out beautiful hikes, beaches, and parks. We took him with us wherever we went. For most of his life, he either had one of us working from home with him, or could come to the office. But I can’t help but also feel some guilt that things changed for him after we had kids, especially after we moved to the East coast and had Nugget 3. Life just got so busy, and less of it revolved around him. I wish I could take back some of that time and make it more about Captain. But I know, too, we had little ability to change much; children don’t give you much leeway, and at least, this was timed with him slowing down a little more. He seemed content with sunbathing in the back yard and cuddles on the couch at night; trips to Grammy and Papa’s instead of along the California coast. I guess that’s the thing- he was happiest wherever we were. And while he’ll always be a California boy in my mind, I’m glad he got to come with us to the East Coast spots that mean the most to us, too. He got to be connected to every part of our lives.

Two days after he died, the Chinese medicine I’d ordered, the one that was supposed to help with internal bleeding and had been recommended by my vet friend, arrived. It sat in our doorway, a cold little package of lost hope.

It is hard not to feel cheated of years with him. I always imagined we’d get him for 16 years. For some reason that was the number I’d clung to in my head, the longest possible I’d heard a V lived. But I suppose the thing is, if Captain had lived to 12, or 14, or 16… no time would have been easy to let him go. The not having him here part would always leave a massive, gaping space. Our house does not feel like home without Captain, our family not complete without him. It is so hard to imagine life without him in it, and yet, I know we have to. I know that’s the deal I signed. So, I take big breaths, and I let myself cry, and feel what I am feeling. There is no way to make this easy, or better. It hurts like hell and it’s terrible, because we love him so much and he was one of the best, most important parts of our lives. Time will make it easier, but it will not take away our love for him. That, I will hold onto forever. 



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We were out with the girls tonight, just 3 days after losing him, biking along a road they close on Sundays, with a field running along side it. In my head, I could see Captain running beside us. I pictured the time he found a stick in that field that was nearly double the size of himself and carried it around, and it made me smile, but it also brought tears to my eyes. There was a breeze and I could almost feel him there with us. And I knew he would be with us, in my heart, forever. 


I will love you always and forever and so much, Captain. I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve given us. You will be forever loved.

2 comments:

  1. My heart is breaking...this is what I felt after each V loss

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  2. Oh my goodness...I'm crying. Big, huge hugs. Oh how my heart aches for y'all. God bless you all!

    ReplyDelete