Dakota RIP

Dakota

Yesterday, April 12th, 2012, the world lost a noble soul. I'm sure that if you are plugged in you felt a shift in the force. That shift was when Dakota Mayo checked out. She was 13 years old and was an honorable dog, a dedicated friend, and a loyal hound.

We arrived home from break at four o'clock and Dakota was glad to see us, wagging tail, barks of delight. She had been on a two day hunger strike, which was not uncommon when we traveled, but seemed in good spirits. We unpacked and Dakota made her usual rounds, outside, inside, bark, lay down and get loved. Her caretakers during vacation, an aunt and a neighbor, let us know that she had not eaten in a while and that her eye had been acting up, but that was standard operating procedure for Dakota. She was, after all, almost 14 years old.

We picked her out of a milieu of Rottweilers and Pit Bulls in 2001, saved her from the pound in Orlando. She happened to be the first dog on the right and the only dog we considered, in spite of the fact that we had decided against dogs that shed, were high energy or had a wet mouth. We went against our gut instinct and went with an emotional decision and took her home. That decision yielded 12 years of joy and pleasure.

She preceded my children and suffered their attentions and abuse stoically. They would accidentally step on her and she would growl, but never bite. She pushed the door open to my infant daughter's room and slept at the foot of her crib, and later, at the foot of her bed. When my son was born, she welcomed him with the same attention, rising in the middle of the night to sleep at the top of the stairs between the rooms, standing guard, watching over her children.

Last night, she tipped over. She waited until we got home from vacation, and then tipped over. I think it was her heart. She had loved as much as she could for as long as she could and she waited for us to get home. Then, she tipped.

She was struggling and crawled into our room to be next to me. She was never a dog for hugs and kisses, but she always wanted to be near. I carried her to my side of the bed and read. Her breathing became labored, so I rubbed her belly. It got worse, and I scratched her stomach, rubbed her back and told her I loved her. I took a brief break to look up an emergency vet in case I had to put her down. Like the noble animal she was, she saved me the trouble. While I rubbed her tummy, she raised her head, looked me in the eye, grimaced, and went slack, her head flopping to the ground.

I wrapped her in a pink flannel sheet with princesses, courtesy of my daughter, placed her in two garbage bags and loaded her into the backseat of my car. The emergency vet's office was gentle and kind. I drove around back while they wheeled out a stainless steel gurney. Andrew offered me a room and time, but I just asked that I be the one to place her on the gurney.

I picked her up for the last time, wrapped in my daughter's sheet and two Hefty bags, knowing her orientation, letting her slack head fall on my shoulder one last time. I hugged the still warm but limp body of my best friend and laid her gently on the gurney. I rubbed her belly and kissed her head and Andrew took her away.

I got in my car and sobbed.