By: Revanche

Farewell to my favorite coworker

May 14, 2024

I have been cycling through ALL the phases of grief. My best coworker is gone. (Seamus was my supervisor: he had clear expectations of when I would start and stop work, and he would enforce them.) Sera would come to work with me when she was ready, sleep nearby, we’d go for walks, and come back to work after. We hung out all day long, in the quiet and in the bedlam when the kids were home.

When we first brought Sera home, the only being who truly existed for her was Seamus. It was love at first sight until the day he died. She coexisted with us humans but she was still too scared, scarred, or resistant to bond with us. She wasn’t ready. She was responsive to training over time for basic commands, but it was the work of years, not days, to bring her personality out of her fear and trauma-hardened shell. It was beyond hard, day to day progress was almost impossible to discern. We sought the advice of trainers after a couple scary incidents, and kept working at it. A friend helped us find a dogsitter that was experienced with reactive dogs, those vacations helped her meet and relax with friendly dogs. That wore away the edges of her trauma further.

Regardless of the trauma and fear, she was always ever-patient with the kids, only retreating to hide behind my legs when they were bickering or screeching loudly. (She never could tell when it was happy screeching or upset screeching. It’s ok, Sera, I couldn’t either.) The kids were scarily loud but she clearly never felt threatened by them the way she did with other dogs. The kids could lay next to her, lean on her, petting her nose, or her paws, or her tail (never her favorite bits to be petted) without any twitching. But she was always allowed to walk away,  she was never cornered, and she would when she was over it.

Towards the end, when she’d refuse the medicine rolled in a pill pocket from me, she’d take it from Smol Acrobat a few times. She learned to trust them and even maybe enjoy their company a bit. If they left the house without her, she’d stand by the door, or sit by it, worrying there quietly until they came home or I called her away. I noticed she certainly didn’t do the same for me, when I went to run errands and returned, she’d always be curled up asleep on her bed. I wasn’t miffed. (Maybe a little, what am I? Chopped liver?)

We had finally started seeing the fruits of our training on walks in the past year. When she’d look across the street and see a dog she didn’t know, instead of lunging, growling, or barking, she’d look at me for a treat instead of reacting. I was so proud of her when she met a neighbor puppy and she just treated it like an annoying child of a dog. She appropriately disciplined the overeager pup with a lot of loud growling, but zero malice and zero fear. The moment the puppy submitted, and stopped ramming her like a freight train, she stood back calmly like nothing had ever happened. It was like a little miracle. I was even more proud of her when she spotted a dog that HAD aggressed her, out of fear, on meeting, and she just looked at me for a treat. They had history but she was still ok with seeing the dog pass by without reacting.

Several months ago, she stuck with me, following me from room to room wherever I went, every time I went in and out. It got so that I minimized my movements after a certain time. Bath and bed meant getting settled in bed for good,  or else she would heave herself to her weary feet and come with me, slightly accusing: “Why did we have to get up again?”

I’d gotten in the habit of narrating the events of the day to her: “It’s ok, Sera, I’m just going to pick up JB right now. You can stay in here if you want.” “Time for walkies, Sera!” “It’s ok, Sera, I’m just dropping off Smol Acrobat, I’ll be back in an hour.” “It’s ok, Sera, we’re all going to hit the road together, no one’s leaving without you.” “We’re off to JB’s class, Sera, we’ll see you in about an hour.” Every day, I catch myself starting to tell her where I’m going or reaching over to pet her, or apologizing for yelling at my computer. She didn’t like that any more than Seamus did. Even the kids were attuned to our habits. Two weeks ago, I was putting on my coat, and Smol Acrobat innocently asked, “Are you taking Sewa for a walk?” I wish, kiddo.

She had her favorite sleeping spots to rotate through during the day, but at dinner, she laid by my feet. Occasionally she’d squeeze under my chair to lay under the table where other people could pet her with their toes but usually, she was just off to my right.

She even had friends of her own! The owners of the neighbor puppy adored her, she helped their pup learn some manners. Smol Acrobat’s little friend who was afraid of dogs loved her. They named their plushie after her, saying he wanted a dog just like her.  Seamus was so well-loved and I had wanted that for her, too.

Then this year, she fell ill. I spent nearly every waking moment caring for her: six walks a day, 5 home-cooked meals a day, medications twice a day, bloodwork every two weeks, desperately trying to get through the worst of it and into remission. Most dogs die in the first two months of diagnosis. When we crossed the three month mark, and then approached the four month mark, I started to hope. I started to think maybe we had a shot. But we didn’t. The disease progressed too far too quickly.

Unlike with our other beloved pets, with Doggle who died suddenly, with Seamus who declined incrementally over weeks and months, this was clear-cut after a trip to the ER showed bloodwork that took away the last bit of hope. As painful as that last week was, we were able to do all the last things. Take all the last pictures, give the last hugs and kisses, offer the last treats. Share my lunch, which I have never done in my life. She was never a cuddler, or a lap puppy the way Seamus was, and it both filled my heart and broke it all at once when she cuddled and laid in my lap for the first, and last, time.

I am so lonely without my shadow.

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