Empty Spaces

RIP, Stella. 2004-2017

I never have been one that felt that every space in the house just had to be filled. That's what my family of origin does, and that's OK for them. You walk into their house and there's something just about everywhere. It has a place and a purpose (usually). For me, I have always kind of liked the "spartan-leaning" look. I don't want just bareness, but I don't like too much either.

Sometimes a space is filled for so long that you hardly notice it or appreciate it when it's there. I am feeling this in a big way this week. We had to put our 12 year-old dog, Stella, to sleep last Tuesday night. She had diabetes, possibly kidney issues, possibly even cancer. She had bad arthritis in her hind legs. To watch this dog--who had once been a goofy, licking, head-and-tail wagging, furry ball of love and joy--suffer.. well, it was just too much to bear.

My wife had come home that evening and found her fallen off the couch between it and the ottoman. She couldn't get up and couldn't support her weight with her hind legs. She was anxious and in pain. I wasn't home at the time. My wife and mother-in-law loaded her 80+ pound frame into the van, they called me (I was in a meeting at my church at the time) and we planned to meet at the Tampa Bay Emergency Veterinary Services facility on Bearss Avenue. I got there first and told them my dog was on the way. When Stella arrived, it was a terrible sight. She didn't try and get up. She just looked at me with an expression that said, "I'm just glad you're here! I'm worried!"

The vet techs loaded her on a gurney and took her into the examination room. Before the vet arrive, my wife and I sat close to Stella to reassure her, but we also talked things through. No heroics. No big medication and treatment plans that may or may not even work. If there wasn't a reasonable and relatively painless way to restore Stella to health (or something resembling it at least), we'll know it's time. She had told us herself, in her own way.

Sure enough. The vet verified what I suspected was the case. "We could give her tests and outline a treatment plan, but it's not exactly cheap, and this is a dog who has clearly lived a great life." She sensed what we were thinking. We asked her to outline what the treatment would be like, just in case. $600-$800 for tests and medications that may or may not work for the diabetes and possible kidney issues, and still a dog with issues they wouldn't be able to fix. She wasn't even sure that tests wouldn't reveal cancer as her abdomen was bother her that night (she had almost stopped eating earlier this week).

It was time. We made the hardest decision I can ever remember making. The kids, already in bed, would be hurting, but we could not bear to make this poor dog go back home in her condition. Earlier that day, she had sat with me on the couch and just looked up at me lovingly, and I loved on her. It was almost like we had a moment that said, "It's almost over. I love you! Thank you!"

We sat with her until the vet's assistant came back and injected her with a sedative. We stroked her fur and spoke to her, thanking her for 12 1/2 great years, for everything she was to the kids (seriously, best dog ever with our kids), and for all she was to us. We held hands, placed our hands on her head, and thanked Jesus for giving us such a wonderful gift with this dog. She looked up one last time, nuzzled my wife, and nuzzled me. We gave her a hug. She fell asleep. And it was over.

We left and went home and went to bed, fairly quietly. We had cried at the veterinarians, but now I sobbed more in earnest. Stella's bed was still laying on the floor next to my side of the bed. I could still smell her (she would have been getting a bath today, most likely).

That's the worst part now--the empty spaces. Where she would crawl up on the couch when we weren't home (she wasn't supposed to be doing that, but when you're gone, and she doesn't do well isolated and tied up or put in a kennel, what are you supposed to do?). I would come home and there she'd be, waiting patiently or sleeping. I used to have to put my leg in the door when I got home to keep her from joyfully bursting out to greet everyone. When we were home, she just loved sleeping at our feet while we sat on the couch and read or watched TV.

Now, where there were food dishes, there's nothing. Where she sat on the couch waiting for us, just a couch. Where she sat at our feet, just carpet. Where she slept next to me, nothing but an empty corner.

Grief, I think, is about coming to terms with the empty space in your life left after a loved one is gone. It is hard. I won't be getting another dog for a few months, because I don't want the next furry family member to be a "replacement" or a "space filler." There will never be another Stella. I want her, or him, to be our dog on its own merits and to carve out a new space in our life. Eventually, I know that the empty spaces will be filled with beautiful, funny, loving memories of Stella. It hurts now... it hurts so bad... but I'd rather create the space to be emptied of in my life any day than to lose the chance to love one of these creatures. Same goes for people really. Much better to love and lose than to never love at all (heard something like that before?).

Give your loved ones a hug tonight, especially the furry ones if you have them. They can be pretty awesome to us. Empty spaces will happen in life. We will grieve and always miss what filled them. However, may they remind us that life is wonderful, filled with wonderful things that serve as a sampling of what God intends to give us to experience in eternity.