Sarah drove in: I looked out our bedroom window and saw her small dog, Chewy, hop out of the car in his orange dog coat. I made my steps deliberate and slow so as not to beat her to the door. She rapped quietly and let herself in.
I squatted next to the brown doughnut-dog bed where Sam lay. He noticed Sarah come in but didn’t attempt to lift off the bed. Paul came in behind Sarah and stood next to the door. I sat on the floor and rubbed Sam’s soft black ears. We talked a little about what had precipitated her coming; Sam’s continued, escalated falls and failing. We didn’t talk long as there wasn’t much more to talk about. Sarah knelt next to Sam and in a low voice told us that she was going to give him some sedation. She explained it might pinch, especially since his back end had become nothing more than fur draped over bone. I watched his face as she pushed the needle in.
One moment I was solid and the next, liquid. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to scream at her to stop. The logical side of my brain thought that if I acted quickly enough, I could ask her to reverse all of this. To let him nap a bit but to come back to us. I needed him to come back to me.
In moments Sam put his chin down on my lap. I continued to stroke the paint stripe down the front of his nose taking in his quiet breathing, memorizing the sound of life.
Sarah touched my hand and told me Sam was gone. His head was in my lap, there was no more breath coming from his mouth and his eyes were fixed on the floor. It was impossible to believe that this skinny needle could extinguish Sam.
When I moved his head to the floor there was no muscle in his neck. Everything flopped and I was oddly shocked by how quickly death had taken over life. Sam was no longer able to get up and go out to herd our sheep with me.
Paul and I lifted him into our green plastic sled, tucking his paws, getting ready to slide. I kept trying to shut his open eyes thinking that if I could do that, he would be peaceful, like sleeping. But they would not shut. Sam wanted to see where he was going next.
We walked, side by side down the hill dragging the sled and our dog. Walking the walk that Sam and I took twice a day for years with our flock. Paul’s hand touched mine as we pulled on the rope as if we were taking him for a ride.
A compost pile is the farmer’s graveyard. We had made a ‘grave-pile’ in case we needed it, one that wouldn’t be spread until fall 2025. Our Black Welsh Mountain sheep, Charlotte, rests in another pile under Basswood trees. We lifted Sam out of the plastic sled. I kept asking Paul to be careful with his head as it kept flopping to the side, breaking my heart. We placed him, curled like a fetus, in the compost. He looked pretty comfortable and I stood quietly watching in case he began breathing again and I needed to grab him. The surreal-ness of it all made anything possible. Paul looked over at me as he took his first pitchfork full of [composted] manure to put on top of Sam. Tears began to run down my face, my nose running just as fast. It was all I could do to stutter at him not to get Sam dirty. I was so worried about his open eyes getting soil in them. I had no reason, no logic, no answer, no Sam.
Today I stood at the top of the hill in the same place that Sam had stood and watched the younger dogs take over his sheep job. The trees were blowing next to the pile but everything felt totally still. In the night I heard his snowshoe paws clicking across the stone kitchen floor and thought that maybe I had dreamed it all so got up to go to the bathroom and be sure. I could see the empty brown doughnut in the dark.
Paul told me that he feels peace, that we were able to help Sam be out of his suffering. I don’t feel that today and won’t tomorrow. He was fifteen and I’m not sure how I thought this would end, but I know I didn’t want it to.
We are in the warm house above the compost pile, Muir is on his side, his still puppy belly rounded, white paws stopped in place, as if running. The white paint stripe runs down his nose. I watch his chest rise and fall.
Bronte naps next to the chair in our bedroom, her feet out straight. The brown doughnut/dog bed lies empty.
This is heartbreaking – to have to give back such a sweet being, one who served faithfully and without hesitation. I said goodbye to Sam the night before he left. He was quietly lying in his bed – calm, peaceful and in a certain way, detached, or so he felt to me. As if the next big thing were upon him and he had to gather strength by letting go in order to face it……
Heart breaking.