Editor’s note: This op-ed is by award-winning journalist Telly Halkias. It first appeared in the Portland Daily Sun.
When I saw Sharon’s number on my cellphone, I knew my Sophie would soon be gone from this world.
The third of five Siberian huskies I’ve owned, and until recently the oldest in her pack, I had agonized for days whether to euthanize Sophie prior to leaving on a long-scheduled trip.
Her trusted pet sitter Sharon and house sitter Deb were ready to care for her, but Sophie’s condition had taken a downturn. Yet the day before I left, she livened up and all seemed well.
“Telly, this isn’t frustration,” Sharon pleaded on the other end of the line. “Sophie’s in distress.”
Given my family’s love for pets, we’ve been fortunate they’ve died naturally, sparing us these gut-wrenching calls. It’s ironic, then, that Sophie was in this position, because everyone – family, friends, neighbors – knew she owned my heart.
Sophie came to us in 1999 from Oregon’s Galena Creek Ranch. At the time, she was the youngest to fill out our Siberian pack. The two older dogs, Katy and Miranda, put Sophie in her place as the omega, or bottom dog.
The runt of her litter, Sophie was shortchanged in the height department. This, combined with a baby face that never seemed to age, gave her a perpetually young appearance. It also fed right into the whims of the pack to disrespect and bully her.
But throughout her 15 years, Sophie countered by being faster and stronger than the rest. From a young age, this drew me to her: she overcame the role of underdog simply by exploding into each day with a cheerfulness that left everyone dizzy.
Sophie’s exuberance came with a price. Her take-no-prisoners playing cost her several ligament injuries. They took years to rehab, and later haunted her with a body movement that was painful to watch.
Yet Sophie knew no other way, and sensed early on that I had become a sucker for her. So from the omega’s role, somehow she wiggled her diminutive frame into being Daddy’s girl.
On walks, hikes and runs, Sophie didn’t know half-speed or straight lines. Told to heel, she would comply briefly for appearances, and then blast ahead into zig-zagging sine curves even a math teacher could love.
As a predator of critters, Sophie proved second to none. Once, she bagged a skunk in our yard at 2 a.m. — much to her personal delight, but our odiferous dismay. Yet put her next to a toddler on a carpet, and Sophie would wag away like a metronome banging out allegro, and softly work in a kissy-lick.
This past year, as her gait eroded, Sophie took up residence on our back porch, a four-season sanctuary equipped for her convenience. There were rugs for traction and comfy extra beds. I had even constructed steps inside and outside the doggy door to help boost her through.
Along our walking routes, Sophie became known for her daily rehab while nursing injuries. Toward the end of her life, we slowed the pace considerably but still kept those back legs limber enough.
Passers-by would stop their cars to greet Sophie. People stepped out of their homes to see how she was doing.
“I see you walking by every day encouraging her to keep going. She listens to every word and really wants to please you. We could all use that kind of mutual love in our lives.”
And this fall, one neighbor tenderly summed it up: “In my next life, I want to come back as Sophie. I see you walking by every day encouraging her to keep going. She listens to every word and really wants to please you. We could all use that kind of mutual love in our lives.”
Those words echoed when I hung up from Sharon and called our vet, asking for someone to put Sophie down. A few hours later, Dr. Suzy called me from the back porch, letting me know Sophie was at peace.
Doubt now burns inside me, adding fuel to my grief.
A year ago, when putting Sophie on medication, I understood the possible tradeoff of internal organ shut-down in exchange for less muscular-skeletal pain. And in her last few weeks, as Sophie became more ginger to the touch, I upped those meds until she found comfort.
All my good intentions likely pushed her over the edge, and my reluctance to euthanize her before my trip led to her final anguish just a few days later.
When I returned home, I went out to the empty porch, a year of Sophie’s trappings greeting me in the solitude of uselessness. Her pink collar was on the rug where she breathed her last. Shavings of Sophie’s underfur were scattered about, the residue of preparation when a needle seeks a vein.
I should’ve never left her.
Still, everyone I love and trust says that Sophie only perked up before my trip because she didn’t want to die in front of me – that meant giving up on her Dad. They all insist: she needed me to go away.
Holding her collar to my heart, through my tears the view from Sophie’s porch never looked so good.
Just the previous week, I watched Sophie head for the back yard. It was her first foray in several days, and boosted my confidence to stay her demise and leave town.
Now the top dog, Sophie went out to the fresh snow and checked up on Francesca, 8, and Gabrielle, 3. The two younger Siberians had trapped a squirrel up the giant maple and were bouncing beneath. Sophie settled down, content as the sun warmed her, and watched.
Then she rose and came back up the stairs to the deck. But Sophie stalled on the top one, her back end planted with faint confidence. So I stuck my head out the porch door and called to her: “C’mon Sophs! You can do it! Just one more!”
In a moment that seemed like a lifetime, Sophie pulled herself up those last few inches and stood on the deck, wobbly but proud, looking my way the entire time with her happy face on.
It was a final act of pure love by the little underdog who conquered everything but death, and done with a joy for life the rest of us can only hope to find.
You may e-mail Telly Halkias at tchalkias@aol.com or follow on Twitter: @TellyHalkias
