Wiggles: Six months today, dear heart
June 5, 2011
By Wiggles' Mommy, always Wiggles' Mommy, Julie Kay Smithson email@example.com
Six months ago, life for Wiggles Blue Heeler and I as we knew it, changed forever. The lurking, growing unseen presence within his midsection had grown -- from something that added enough pressure to make him leak urine almost two years earlier -- to a mass that now was shutting down his ability to urinate or defecate. Wiggles, he of great heart and even greater love, could not go on in his earthly form any longer.
What could I say, now that we'd come "down to the wire" and my promise was being called? Wiggles had never let me down. He'd always been there for me, and now I had to be there for him, keeping my promise to not let him suffer.
A little after five in the morning on Sunday, December 5th, I awakened to see ever-faithful Wiggles stretched out in clear discomfort, perpendicular to me, his front feet off the bed, trying to buy a little more precious time, a few more breaths without struggle. He and I knew, when we lay down to grab a little sleep just four hours earlier, that this would be our last time to be physically near each other on this earthly plane.
We didn't have to talk about it or fight it any more. I called the emergency veterinarian I'd spoken with the night before, letting her know that it was time for us to meet her and her assistant. She asked if nine o'clock would be okay. I replied, "No." She inquired, "Eight o'clock, then?" I spoke words that, even now, seem unreal. "We need you to meet us as soon as you can get there, about seven o'clock."
Now things seemed to slow down. Wiggles actually got down off the bed by himself and went out the front door and down the steps on his own, knowing, I'm certain, that this was our last ride in the little blue truck. I can't remember if I helped him up in the truck, but it seems that I did (he'd always jumped in on his own before). Then we were off, taking the smoothest possible route so as not to jar his bulging midsection and make him hurt. Down the state highway to the interstate, going up to legal speed and a little more, we had only fifteen miles to cover to get to the exit where ...
As we got within a half-mile of the exit for Wilson Road, I reached over to pat his head gently and put a hand up across him so he wouldn't be jarred as we took the ramp. For the first time in his life, Wiggles was trembling under my hand, his head transmitting the pain to me.
I gave him all I had in assurance and love. "Hold on, sweetheart. We're almost there. I won't let you hurt anymore." When we got to the clinic, the lady vet and her young assistant were arriving at the same time. One of them held my door open, and I carried Wiggles, his bed and thick towel, as the other held the door of the clinic for us. Paperwork was signed, a 'sleepy shot' was given (the only time I ever heard Wiggles yelp in pain, because he was tense with the pain that he still endured without a whimper -- then the sleepy shot helped him relax, though he still remained upright, though lying, his dear face consigned to the moment at hand. He kissed me one last time for now, and kissed the vet and her assistant to reassure them that all was okay.
At seven-fourteen on this crystal-clear Sunday morning in December, Wiggles, child of my soul and my best friend for this lifetime and eternity, was whisked back into God's arms. Someday, we'll be rejoined in joy, but at that moment, all that mattered was that this dearest, gentlest of souls was no longer hurting, and was free at last from his earthly bonds of age.
I love you, Wiggles, forever. You know me, like God does, better than I'll ever know myself. Thank you for all your love, love that surpasses everything, and swaddles me always. Get ready, dear one! My soul will flee earth one day and rejoin you forever!