Our sweet golden fluffy

Two years ago, we buried our dog Dingo.

Dingo was a sweet dog, almost a year old, that was at Justin's work. His story at the shelter was actually pretty sad -- his previous owners were moving and they couldn't take him. Then when he was in the larger dog kennel, somehow he had gotten hit in the head by the heavy metal door separating the inside and outside of the kennel. The poor guy was knocked unconscious and had several x-rays, a CT scan, etc. performed, and he was then put in the puppy room since he had a very reasonable fear of the large dog kennels. 

And because he was now housed in the puppy room, he often got overlooked for the fluffy little puppies. 

The first time I saw Dingo's picture, I instantly fell in love.

He had such a goofy, adorable expression on his face, and a floppy bum ear that wouldn't stand up straight. 

I went on my lunch break to meet him, and we adopted him the next day.

At the time, Allie was barely a year old and was somewhat scared of dogs. I know, those of you who didn't know her back then are probably having a hard time believing that, seeing how she is with dogs now -- the bigger the dog, the better, in her world! 

But Dingo was the perfect dog to help a little girl get past her fear of dogs. He was so patient with her. He nuzzled her, let her climb all over him (supervised, of course), played gently with her. And it was quite the symbiotic relationship. He laid under her high chair at meal time, and happily cleaned up any bits of food that managed to find their way to the floor.

Dingo 'nuggles

Sharing her sippy cup -- I tried not to think about how gross that was.

Hugs!

Dingo immediately became part of our family. We all loved our sweet golden fluffy to pieces.

His favorite place to sleep was at the top of the stairs. He would make sure we were all tucked into bed safe and sound, then position himself at the top of the stairs until the morning. He was very protective of us, especially of Allie.

Dingo taught Allie responsibility. When she got old enough, her chore was to feed him and our cats twice a day. And she took her job very seriously.

About a year after we got him, he started having seizures. We took him to our vet, and she told us to monitor him and log the frequency and length of his seizures, and what kind they were -- tonic, tonic clonic.

At first, the seizures weren't that bad -- just a mild one here and there. Then they started getting more frequent, and longer, and more intense. After weighing the pros and cons very heavily, our vet recommended putting him on phenobarb to help manage the seizures.

The phenobarb worked for awhile. We stopped worrying and moved forward, thinking now that the phenobarb was doing a good job of managing Dingo's seizures, he would be just fine.

But as the months went on, Dingo's seizures became more frequent again, and he began having cluster seizures. Our vet upped his phenobarb and gave us valium to use in extreme cases, to give the poor guy some relief. 

But our sweet golden fluffy just worsened. Some days he would have 10 to 11 seizures, often having cluster seizures for 30 minutes straight. It got to the point where he couldn't control his bathroom for a long time after he came out of a seizure. In-between seizures, he paced around the house, staring blankly into space. The phenobarb and valium were no longer helping, and his quality of life was rapidly declining. Allie witnessed several of his seizures, something no little child should ever have to do. One particular seizure, Dingo's head was on my lap, and as his jaw thrashed open and closed along with the rest of his seizing body, he clamped down hard on my thigh, leaving a pretty nasty bruise.

We talked to our vet, and the next step would be to put him on a phenobarb drip. But that would really only delay the inevitable. With her advice, we made the heart-wrenching decision to put our sweet golden fluffy down.

We spent the evening before his vet appointment loving on him, snuggling him. letting him know how much we loved him and were going to miss him. We dealt with his seizures as they came.

Our last family photo with Dingo. I have no idea why Allie had a cat toy in her mouth.

Snuggling for the last time with my sweet golden fluffy.

The next morning, Justin and I both called in to work. He took Allie to daycare while I stayed home with Dingo. Watching my daughter give Dingo a hug for the last time, tell him goodbye, and that she loved him and would miss him broke my heart.

I gave Dingo a can of Alpo and sat next to him while he scarfed up his treat. All morning long, he alternated between seizing and spacing out. Deep down, I knew we were making the right decision. Justin came home from dropping Allie at daycare, and we loaded Dingo up in the Xterra and took him to the vet. 

We walked into the vet's office and signed Dingo in. The receptionist took one look at his name, gave us a sad look, and quietly whispered, "I'm so sorry." She took us to a quiet, comfortable room where we waited with our sweet golden fluffy. A vet tech came and got him, then brought him back, sedated. Our vet came into the room and explained what would happen. She would inject the liquid into the port they'd put in his leg, and he would quietly and peacefully go to sleep. 

Justin and I sat on the floor next to Dingo. I laid his head in my lap and we stroked his face, his ears, his neck, telling him how much we loved him and were going to miss him. Dingo closed his eyes, and I felt his entire body relax -- probably the first time I'd seen him truly relax in several weeks. My tears fell unchecked on his golden face as that liquid made its way through his sick body, freeing him from his seizures, from his pain.

Our vet gently put a stethoscope to his chest and listened. "Okay," she said softly. "He's gone." She stood up. "Take as long as you need." She closed the door behind her.

I hugged Dingo's now-lifeless body and sobbed. I looked up at Justin and saw tears in his eyes. "Are you sure we did the right thing?" I asked him, already knowing the right answer in my heart.

Justin nodded. "I'm sure."

When we were finished saying our final goodbyes, we called one of the vet techs and she put Dingo in the cardboard coffin. Then she, the receptionist, and Justin carried the coffin out to the Xterra.

We drove Dingo to my in-laws' house where we planned to bury him. Digging his grave with Justin was somehow healing for me, and after several hours of digging, we lowered Dingo's coffin into the ground and covered it back up. 

We buried him on the middle tier at my in-laws' house, at the foot of a giant pine tree.

The following weeks were very hard for all three of us. Allie, at the time only a little over two years old, grieved in her own way. She became very attached to one of our cats, Muttsy, aka Fat Cat, and would bury her face in his fur and cry. To this day, she and Muttsy have a super close bond.

A few months after we buried Dingo, we took Allie to see his grave for the first time. She picked a yellow daffodil from my mother-in-law's garden and laid it on his grave.

It's always seemed unfair to me that our sweet golden fluffy had to be put down before he even turned three years old. He didn't even get a chance at life. Our vet said there's no way to be 100% sure what caused his epilepsy, but we all suspected it was the head injury he sustained when the door fell on his head.

I comforted myself by knowing that, while his life had been short, it had been a happy life. For the last year and a half of his life, all he knew was love and care. 

Justin's coworkers gave us a beautiful reminder of Dingo -- a sympathy card signed by all of them, and a beautiful glass ornament with a picture of Dingo and a white feather inside, and a poem attached to the outside:

"A feather from an angel

Is one we rarely see

But this one is quite different

And as special as can be.

This feather is a reminder

Of a special fluffy's love,

Who's now a guardian angel,

Watching and protecting from above."

Throughout the year, we visited Dingo quite often. One time, we found a beautiful violet growing at the head of his grave. We arranged a flower petal cross next to the violet.

Allie always loved blowing "wishy flowers" over his grave, and every time, she wished that he was happy in heaven and knew that we missed him and still loved him.

Last year, January 2014 -- the one-year anniversary of Dingo's death -- we visited his grave. We picked some flowers and holly berries and Allie laid them on his grave.

Justin arranged a heart-shaped wreath out of some long grass and laid that around the flowers and holly berries.

About seven months ago, a gentleman from the Foothills Search and Rescue Unit came into the shelter. Before Dingo had started having problems, we had planned to train him to be a search and rescue dog. Justin had talked to a man at the Foothills Search and Rescue, and the man said that Dingo sounded like a prime candidate. The gentleman that came into the shelter that day was the same gentleman whom Justin had initially spoke to. He saw Justin and asked him how Dingo was doing and had we pursued getting him trained as a SAR dog. 

Justin told him Dingo's sad story. The man gave his condolences, walked out of the shelter, and returned with one of the leashes that the SAR dogs wear while on duty. "Here, take this," he told Justin. "I know Dingo would have made a fine search and rescue dog."

I was so proud of my sweet golden fluffy, and I have no doubt that, had he lived and pursued training, he would have been the best SAR dog out there.

Dingo was our first dog, and he'll always have a special place in our hearts. I found this little jewelry box, and got it for Allie. It seemed perfect for her. 

I told her it was to her, from Dingo. She keeps the little bracelet I made her while I was at the hospital in there.

To this day, I still miss Dingo. I fondly remember all our fun times with him -- trips to the dog park, sweet snuggles on the couch, and Allie dressing him up, to name a few. But I know in my heart that, two years ago, we made the right decision. Our sweet golden fluffy had fought so hard, and he deserved a seizure-free rest.

The Rainbow Bridge

author unknown

Just this side of heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to the Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water, and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animal who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing -- they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together . . .