Chloe the Dog: Rest in Peace

This is a retelling of our dog's life. I've heard that speaking for the dead is cathartic. If lengthy dog stories aren't your thing, it's okay. This post is more for me than for you.

After an unexpected and painful breakup in 1997, Phil bought a yellow labrador puppy. Named Chloe, for the respected woman in the early church (we must have Bible names always, after all!), she became his constant companion.

She was also very accident prone. Before her second birthday, she had a tumor between her scalp and her skull, which Phil had removed. That was one of my first memories of Phil: going to see Star Wars, Episode I, and caring for Chloe's surgical incision. Even then, Phil had squeamish issues.

A bit after that, she tore out her toenail in his workplace's elevator, fell out of a moving truck, and cut her paw pad on a piece of garden edging, which required stitches—in one week!

Phil got insurance for her. Pet insurance seemed ridiculous to me, but it did prevent any more accidents. About five years into marriage, though, I was ready to stop paying in case she might get injured. I didn't get right on it, though, and two weeks after I made the decision, Chloe went in for a hip replacement, which effectively paid back all that we had spent on pet insurance. Then I cancelled the policy, and haven't regretted it.

Before we were married, Phil mentioned that his coworkers asked, "If Amy said, 'It's Chloe or me,' who would you choose?" Phil replied, "If Amy asked that, she wouldn't be Amy, so it's a moot point." I think that made me feel special, but later on, I wasn't so sure.

Our first year of marriage, I was still in school, and, hence, home much more often than Phil. I superseded him as Chloe's companion of choice. The three of us would jog in the evenings, and we would throw a tennis ball where Chloe the retriever ran with all her heart, over and over.

As I look over Chloe photos, I'm struck that something so essentially Chloe is nowhere captured. Her speed, her joy—perhaps a split-second image wouldn't be sufficient anyway.

She was unfailingly gentle and patient with the four boys, who tugged at her, chased her, grabbed her fur.

When she was happy, her tail would wag so hard, it would be like a helicopter blade, and feel like a whip.

She did not jump up on people, and respected boundaries. For a time, Phil would put a folding chair across the doorway, and she would not jump over, even though, folded up and on its side, her head and shoulders easily poked above it. She would bark to let us know that the mailman came (the mailbox was attached to the house, right next to the door), and the mailman loved her.

She loved Phil's Dad, who gave her treats every chance he could. Once, we were talking on Skype and she heard him, and ran around looking for him, whining. That was maybe a bit mean, but it made us laugh and laugh.

A chick magnet, our unmarried friends would sometimes borrow her for a hike. Once, our friend let her off leash and she found something ripe to roll in. I don't think that friend ever borrowed her again.

As a lab, she was always around when food was present. Our first roommate called her "Hoover," and told her, after Jadon was born, that she was coming in to the "glory years."

We had our less happy moments, too. As part of our twice-a-week entertaining we managed early in our marriage, Chloe ate all the homemade tortillas I had faithfully rolled out: right before the guests arrived. Another time, I had made bran muffins to eat on a camping trip. She managed to eat the whole bag, and the stick of butter that went with it.

She was very regular there for a while.

After I had two boys, she felt a bit neglected, I think, and would snatch food as often as possible. A loaf of homemade bread here; some chicken off the table there. I felt like I was under assault, and looked forward to the day she would die. (Since I remembered I couldn't ask Phil to get rid of her, lest he choose the Amy option to be rid of instead!) At the time, I said I felt like I was in a war, and Chloe would always, always win because she only had to think about how to steal food, whereas I had so many other things on my mind.

The worst moment came when, a few months after we moved into our new home in Boulder, the neighbor's daughter came outside in a pink snowsuit. We had no fence between our yards, and Chloe must have thought the oversized pink rabbit-like thing looked a bit threatening, or at least unusual. She charged this little girl, and circled her, barking. Understandably, the girl was very scared, and Phil and I were so embarrassed. Although Chloe did no physical damage, the girl's mother was concerned about the psychological trauma, and from that time on, as long as we lived in Boulder, she was forced to be always in our small side yard.

I took her on walks almost daily, with first one son, then two, three, and even, a few times, four, but four plus a dog felt a bit much for me alone. Sometimes Phil came, too.

We didn't expect she'd live long enough to make it to the land, so the fact that she not only survived long enough, but was happy and healthy for well over a year is so pleasing to remember. She walked with us on hikes, followed Phil when he worked, and went everywhere with us, barring about three trips, the entire time we've lived here.

On November first this year, after she had eaten part of a chicken unknown to Phil and me, she seemed to suddenly decline. I was a bit concerned that a piece of chicken bone stuck in her digestive track somewhere, but I prayed about it, and she perked up.

However, the last month, every few days Phil would say, "Chloe just stumbled as she walked" or, "Chloe didn't want to get up when she heard the car start up." She was dying. We would help lift her in to the trailer at night so she could be warm.

In retrospect, I'm not sure we made the right choice about her death. We considered taking her to the vet to be put down, but it seemed so cold, to put her in a sterile environment to be poisoned and cremated.

Having read the book Sunsets, about hospice care, I knew that the natural process of death involves the body gradually shutting down. The dying refuses food and water, as the organs shut down. Hospice tries to relieve pain, but allows the natural process to happen, hopefully in the home.

That's the kind of death I want, and we opted for that for Chloe, too. If that was the wrong choice, I am stricken. If she had been in obvious pain, Phil says he would have shot her, but she didn't appear to be in pain, and the stress of actually shooting her (for both man and dog) made us decide against it.

So today, on her third day refusing all food and water, she passed away in her sleep, sometime around 3:45pm. The younger boys and I were in the room with her, going about our life, when her life on earth ended.

God is so gracious. She hadn't been able to stand up since Monday (so we've dealt with her bodily functions as we would deal with a baby, though the diaper we put under her were not attached). I have pleaded with the Lord to take her, but it took longer than I would have thought.

Then, when Phil's work was done, when the chickens were processed, when the ground had sufficiently firmed after the rain, when a few smaller tasks were done and larger tasks were postponed until tomorrow, when we were fed and no chores were needed, suddenly she died.

And death is so unexpected, even when expected, that when I asked Phil if he could dig a hole, he asked, "Why?"

We are thankful for our new-to-us tractor, that allowed him to dig the hole right away.

Goodbye, Chloe. You were a good dog.

June 13, 1997 to December 2, 2010