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In a bare and cold exam room, I paced, and faced five words we had otherwise always been spared: There's nothing we can do.
First, I called my dad. Then, my brother. While my mother and I waited, I leaned in, looked at Willy and held up my hand.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
I laughed, through tears. Age and various ailments had caught up with Willy, who nestled his head against my mom's heart. My mom and I cracked jokes and told stories. That, I learned, is what you do when you know these moments are the last you will spend with your dog.
We recalled our memories of him to prepare for the last one.
"Remember when we first got him?"
Willy, who would have turned 16 earlier this month, came to us a runt in 1993, the last one left of a litter of dachshunds. My dad brought him home in a cardboard box and carried him in on the palm of his hand.
"Can we keep him?"
I, then 8 years old, followed my dad and the puppy.
"Yes," my dad said. "He's ours."
My parents, my brother and I sat in a circle on the kitchen floor and put Willy in the middle. He frolicked, like puppies do, into my mother's lap. How little we knew then of how much he would make us laugh, all we would learn from him and how much we would love him.
"Remember when we caught him on the dining room table?"
Or how he jumped off the table — with the bagel — before we could grab him.
The times we found him sleeping in my mom's dresser, or in bed with his head on her pillow. Burrowed in baskets beneath laundry, or stuck under the couch (that one wasn't funny).
We laughed about how he would sing with us when we sang Happy Birthday. How he "forgot how to walk" as soon as you slipped a sweater on him.
The way he got so excited he peed every time Popop, our paternal grandpa, came over. Or how deep his growl got if you said "kitty cat" or "squirrel." How big his eyes got if you said, showed him or smelled like cheese. The way he would trot across the house.
"What about the time I taught him to walk up a ramp, using croutons?" I remembered.
Or the time I figured out he could, in fact, fit in an empty Chex box.
We loved the way he would be your hot water bottle if you needed one. The way he would kiss your face if he saw you crying.
With Willy also came lessons. I learned how to clean up after someone. I learned to share a bed. I learned to ignore his breath and let him lick my face, and how to lift a couch off a dog.
I learned to make sacrifices for the sake of somebody else. I learned to be patient. I learned to love.
And on April 13, Willy's last day, in a bare, cold exam room, I learned how to let him go. My mom held him in a baby blue blanket and took off his collar.
Each in our own way, we celebrated his 15 years, eight months and eight days of life. I bent down, crying, ready to say goodbye. He leaned in, slowly, and kissed my face.
Arleen Spenceley can be reached at (813) 909-4617 or aspenceley@sptimes.com.
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