My dog, who has been a part of our family for over sixteen years, passed away yesterday. I haven’t cried this much in a very long time. I can’t stop crying. I’m an absolute mess of a human being right now. I feel like a piece of my heart was ripped out at the vet’s office yesterday, even though her departure was more peaceful than I thought possible. It was her time and it was the right thing to do. The hardest, most gut wrenching decision I’ve ever made in my life, but the right thing nonetheless.
Motzie was born May 21, 2008, in Danville, Virginia — the only girl in the litter. The runt. I didn’t know how significant her birthdate of May 21 would be in my life. It was the same day, exactly one year later, my dad would die. I’ve always thought of this day not as the day my dad passed, but as the day my dog was born: Motzie’s birthday.
Motzie is short for Mozzarella. Her full name, if you were to peek in on her patient file at the vet’s office, was Mozzarella Cheese Watkins Pillow. She was well known in the vet’s office for both her name and personality. Many times during her visits over the years a muzzle was attempted because she wasn’t a fan of getting bloodwork.
She never bit any of the vet techs or assistants, but she let them know she was ready and willing if they didn’t stop trying to put the muzzle on her. Over her final six years of life, she mellowed. Four people were no longer needed to hold her still while blood was drawn. Just me and some pats and rubs on her side.
Over the next month, I’m going to be writing a lot about dogs on here. My dog, in particular, and what she has meant to me over the course of my life — from a 26 year old unmarried guy without kids to a now 43 year old husband and father with two children, one inching toward high school.
If I try to sum up Motzie and what she meant to me in a single essay, I might not ever finish writing it; and even if I did, it would be closer to book length when it’s all said and done.
Because Motzie was my forever dog. My lifetime dog.
She was with me when I proposed to my wife. She actually ate part of my engagement surprise — a piece of cheddar cheese shaped like a heart. I had to use the outline of the cheese instead. She ate some of the roses scattered on the floor as well and almost the engagement ring itself.
She attended our wedding. Leashed of course because she would have taken out the catering in less than five minutes.
She rode shotgun when we arrived at the home we still live in today. A place where she could run more free. Naturally, she found a way to get bitten in the face by the resident garter snake and a squirrel over the years.
She waited at the front door when we brought home our first born in 2011. “Motzie ran through the screen door in the back,” my father-in-law texted us while we were in the labor & delivery ward at the hospital. “Sorry about that.”
If you’ve ever been to our house, you’ll know where the trash can is: in the closet. That’s because Motzie knew how to use the foot pedal on a trash can. She’d scatter its contents all around the house, including, a few years later, dirty diapers which she’d hide under our bed after munching through its disgusting goodness.
She had her stomach pumped on three separate occasions for getting into various toxic substances. She didn’t pay a dime, but we racked up over $3,000 in vet hospital bills over her sixteen going on seventeen year life.
She was a tough cookie. A protector. She was sweet, too. She loved my wife and me. Her extended family of grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. She loved my kids and slept in their rooms when they were infants. She never wanted to be more than five feet away from them.
When I took her on walks, she’d drop more deuces than you’d think was possible. It got to a point I felt like I needed to invest in stocks for doggie poo disposable bags.
I remember one vet visit they asked me if she was still having healthy bowel movements. She was around 11 or 12 at this point.
“Yes,” I said. “She’ll go like five or six times when we walk.”
She looked at me puzzled as if this was unusual.
“She’s always been like this,” I said. “It’s something to behold.”
If I walked her with my wife and kids, she felt it was her responsibility to protect them.
“Can I pet your dog?” someone would inevitably ask.
I had to tell them no, at which they’d give me a “forget you then, buddy” kind of look. But I was doing them a favor. Because if you came close to my wife or kids when Motzie was alongside, she would probably take your hand off.
My wife Allison grew up with English springer spaniels. It’s the only dog breed she ever knew. I, on the other hand, had a Dalmatian as a boy. When we decided to get our first pet together, we compromised. We’d get an English springer spaniel but it had to be black and white.
In comes Motzie.
She was flea ridden when we got her. We took her to a vet when we lived on Pantops and the vet, one we never went back to after her visit, looked at my then fiancé and I, and said, “I’m sorry to tell you, she’ll never be a show dog. She has an underbite.”
My wife and I thought this was hilarious. A show dog? That’s not why we got her. And even if she had the potential for a show dog, she would’ve torn down (not through, but down) the obstacle course in record time.
After her first vet appointment, we switched her to another vet. His name is Dr. Peppard and he was/is the best vet in the world in my opinion. He had springers himself. Her full name, Mozzarella, as everyone at the vet’s office called her, cemented her legacy in between their four walls.
Everyone knew her.
“Mozzarella!” they’d say every time she entered.
There was no mistaking Motzie.
Almost a year ago, in January, she had her first seizure. I knew her time was limited. But then she never had another until about a month ago. But even after that one, she was mostly fine.
Until two weeks ago, I still took her for daily walks.
The walks kept getting shorter and shorter.
But we still went.
Then two weeks ago, her hind legs started to go completely. Something was bothering her on her backside.
I took her to the vet thinking maybe her glands needed to be expressed or that she had a UTI.
She went on antibiotics. We put her back on Gabapentin.
But over the past week, her health declined more rapidly. The sundowner’s she experienced lessened surprisingly. Her eyes seemed to clear up. She’d look at us more than she had in the previous month.
But on Friday morning I knew we had to make the decision to put her down. I’d wanted her to go peacefully in her sleep. She was still eating voraciously. Still drinking. But she was uncomfortable now. I was having to assist her to use the bathroom and even pass gas. It was like her brain wasn’t communicating with her nether regions.
She looked at me Friday morning as if she was giving me permission to say goodbye. Like she was saying goodbye.
So I called the vet and confirmed our appointment with Dr. Peppard, the only vet she’d ever known in her life save for the “dog show” vet when we first got her.
At 3:00 PM, my wife and I drove to Georgetown Vet. She yelped a bit on the ride. She never liked car rides. She was panicky as I held her in my arms walking into the vet’s office.
“I think she has to pee,” I said to the vet tech.
I held her mid section, my palm against her bladder, and she peed. Then she laid down, comfortably, no longer panicking, as we continued to pet her.
Then Dr. Peppard came in and administered a sedative. A few minutes later, the line that would end her life.
I never wanted to put her down.
I wanted her to go away peacefully in her sleep.
And she did, not at home, but at the vet’s office.
My wife and I by her side.
Dr. Peppard who said to her “Goodbye, sweet girl” who loved that dog about as much as a vet can love another person’s animal.
Her vet tech who she always had at her visits was with us and she cried.
My wife and I sobbed on the floor.
But she didn’t fight it at all. She just went to sleep.
It was the right thing to do and the hardest thing to do.
I know we did the right thing. It was her time.
But I’m having a time myself. I loved that mischievous dog.
And I know my tears of sadness are happy memories in disguise.
But I miss her so much.
She’s not resting at my feet while I write this.
She was always by my side while I wrote.
Snoring away.
Always there.
My writing buddy.
My best friend during so many lonely times over the last sixteen-plus years.
Goodbye Motzie.
There will never be another dog like you.