When I Miss Otis

4 weeks and 1 day ago, I lost my furry best friend, Otis. She was fourteen years old and had bone cancer and a pretty shattered upper leg. She couldn't handle stairs at all, so I had to carry her up and down stairs any time she needed to go out, and I had to lift her up on the bed every night to go to sleep. I didn't mind, of course, it just broke my heart a little every time. She was on pain killers but she was still in pain. One night I gently laid my head on her side, like I had a million times before. She cried out in pain. CRACK went my heart. 

She hadn't been doing well for quite a while, but the night before, somehow, I knew. I laid on the floor with her and stroked her silky soft ears. I ran my fingers up and down her beautiful nose, and trailed my hand up and down her side. I told her how beautiful she was, and smart, and wonderful, and brave and true. My heart crackled and felt burning hot.

The first time I saw Otis, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. All these years later, I realize I was right. After a horrible day of 6th grade, I wasn't doing well. At all. I had recently attempted suicide by slitting my wrist and the whole school knew. And we all know how sweet midschool-aged kids are. They called me "freak," and asked if they could see the wound, and asked me if I had my razor blade with me. They pointed and laughed and stared. 

So when I climbed in my mom's car after school, to say I was doing poorly is a massive understatement. I shoved my backpack on the floor of the car and hopped in. My mom looked at me. 

"You know," she said, "Mr. Wingo came in the office today. He said he heard there was a week-old puppy at the animal hospital." Her eyes traveled over my face. "You wanna go see it?"

At the animal hospital, we inquired at the front desk. Stephanie Jansen smiled and opened the door that separates the waiting room from the rest of the building. She led us to a room off to the side that was mostly empty, besides a table and chair and some cabinets. And one brown cardboard box. I walked over to the box, drawn to it. Inside were several small blankets and towels, and one fuzzy brown potato. Stephanie gently reached into the box and took out that gorgeous potato and handed her to me. I felt her heartbeat in my fingertips and felt her nuzzle up against me. She whimpered quietly. For the first time in months, maybe years, my heart burned red hot and felt complete. Stephanie and my mom talked for a while, but I don't know what about. I wasn't listening.

We got a lot of instructions about taking care of the potato- she was young enough she needed the be bottle fed every few hours. Someone had dumped the newborn potato and her siblings off in the chilly night and this pup was the only one to survive. 

On the way home, I sat in the back seat with the cardboard box in my lap. The pup was sleeping and I marveled at how perfect she was. 

"What are you gonna name her?" my Mom asked.

I was quiet, thinking.

"You know what name I've always liked?" my sister asked from the front seat, "Otis."

"Otis," I repeated quietly. I gently reached in and touched her puppy nose. "Otis."

I got to be quite the bottle feeding expert! Once or twice we ran out of puppy formula so we had to use human baby formula, which, I feel, helped add to her wit and sophistication.

She was small enough we took her with us when we traveled. In the car, when she got hot, she would cry out, pouting, and one of us would hold her up in front of the air conditioning vent, where she would stay, smug.

And this whole time, I was HEALING. She gave me a reason to live. To leave behind the shackles of suicidal depression. She showed me how to fight and kick and scream and never, ever give up.

She developed SO MUCH personality and attitude! Here is a poem my Mom wrote about Otis as a puppy/young dog. I love it so much!

"Ode to Otis"

by Maggie Linsky

 

Otis, dog of dubious breed,

Went to the barn with me to feed.

When a neighbor driving by,

Stopped to say a friendly "Hi!"

All you could see was Otis' snout,

Cowering behind me, peeking out.

Our neighbor shouted, "How do you do?"

Ois promptly peed on my shoe.

Later, this little fraidy cat,

Chased and treed my old barn cat;

Woofed at the horse as he was fed...

Got herself locked in the hay shed.

When we got back home to the house,

We played a game of cat and mouse,

'Til with a cheerful "bon voyage",

I stuffed my problem in the garage.

I heard the old dogs growl and snap,

As Otis ran amok, madcap.

I listened to her howl awhile,

Opened the door, and in "free style",

She roared through, out of control;

Pounced and spilled the water bowl.

She nabbed and mauled my magpie bird,

And then she puked up riped deer turds.

We mopped it up, and unoccupied,

Another victim she quickly spied:

Emmy doing knee exercise.

Otis attacked in stealthy surprise.

Grabbed her by the pony-tail;

Made poor Emmy squawk and wail!

I, with a severe and grumpy face,

Dragged Otis to her least favorite place.

Causing mayhem she is unable,

with "Mr. Leash", tied to the table.

Otis LOVED walks, and took me any time I needed one. She quickly got plenty of admirers, including my Grandpa. On weekends, all of our dogs would run around and get to ride in the gator and since they were all so much bigger than Otis at the time, my Gramp took an empty butter tub, found a strap, and made Otis wear the "helmet" every time they went out.

This is immature humor, but several times in her life, Otie would be lying on the floor and develop gas. She would fart, loudly, and look at her butt like she was confused and horrified about what just happened. Anyone in the room would be in stitches laughing.

When my parents split up, Otis went where I went, my constant rock. When my mental illness spiraled out of control, she was my anchor in a sea of scary hallucinations and terrible mood swings.

But, like me, Otis grew older. She developed arthritis and a thyroid problem. She could no longer hop in and out of a car. But that playful, fighting spirit stayed. She still loved walks. They just hurt sometimes. 

Then one morning, she hopped off our bed and yelped in pain. I watched for a day or two as she did not get better and could put no weight on her leg. We took her to the vet's and they gave more pain pills, and I started to carry her up and down the stairs. But the vet made a point of saying it might be time.

I rejected the idea, in a sea of tears. So she did okay for a week or so. But then she hurt her leg/shoulder even more and was in more pain.

So there I was, lying on the floor with her, stroking her nose and ears and telling her how amazing she is.

The next day, it was simply time. I couldn't watch her suffer anymore. So we made an appointment to put her down at 4:30. I took off early and went home. I took Otis and Mose out for a drive and a cheeseburger. I sat on the floor and tried not to sob. 

At about 4 I took Otis out in front of my house and we sat on the weeds. She was so calm, and ready. My dad picked us up. At the animal hospital, we drove around back and got Otis out of the truck. There was a green patch of grass and we sat on it. My dad and sister were there too, and were in and out of the building, getting everything in order. But I didn't pay attention. I just sat on the grass with her.

"Good dog," I told her. "Good dog."

The vet came out with the syringe but didn't hurry me in the slightest. I knew it was time, so I told Otis the things she had to know.

"Thank you for saving my life," I told her, crying. "When you wake up, Grandpa will be there and he will take care of you til I get there. It's wonderful, where you're going. There are tennis balls and chew sticks and walks and squeak toys. I love you so much, more than you will ever be able to know."

I nodded, and the vet gave her the injection. I watched as she gently, easily drifted away. The vet put the stethoscope to her chest. "She's gone," she told me kindly. So everyone got up and moved away to give Otis and me some space. I lay down in the grass and dirt and curled up around her body like we used to do at night. I stroked her fur and touched her still-perfect nose.

"Otis," I said. "Good dog, Otis."

We buried her at my dad's house, and I go to her grave every day and talk to her. 

But I miss her so goddamn much! I miss her when:

-I look at Mose by himself

-I see her food and water bowls

-I find tufts of her fur on my clothes and sheets

-When I feed my animals

-When I go outside at night and look at the sky

-When the flower-spinner we put on her grave blows in the wind

-When I see pictures of her

-When I eat and remember her begging

-When I walk

-When I sleep by myself

-That time just before sleep, where you are in the divide between sleep and wakefulness

-Every time I go to the animal hospital/vet, the place I met her and lost her

-When I'm at my house

-When I breathe in

-When I breathe out

The only time I don't miss her is when I don't breathe and hold my breath. That suffocating feeling is horrible but it expands and pushes out every other feeling. I only feel my heart beating in stifling, dull grayness. 

There is such a void in me that can't be filled with anything. Just a raw, gaping hole in my soul. 

But you know that saying, "It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all," and it's true. I hurt, but I wouldn't give my memories of her up for anything. And, most importantly, if I didn't have Otis I wouldn't be here. Simple. 

Otis taught me a lot of things, and I kind of have a life motto inspired by her: What Would Otis Do? Otis would love life and laughter and would be strong and kind and not be embarrassed too badly when she got scared and peed. 

This is a recreation photo, one of the first pictures I have with her and one of the last:

I am SO GRATEFUL for my family. My dad and sister see me everyday and talk me down/up when I'm really sad. My mom calls me every few days and misses Otis too! All of my family have cats and dogs and understand how hard it is losing them. But, and I don't want to sound too stuck up, I think we all acknowledge my bond with Otis was something different... something special. Maybe we all think that about our pets.

I got a tattoo of her name above my tattoo of her paw print. Seeing them calms me.

There is no cure for missing someone. I know as time goes on it will get easier, but for now, I just ache. 

Here is a link to a bunch of pictures of the two of us.

Two separate people made donations to the Humane Society in Otis' name, which is incredible. Thank you.

I'm not at all a religious person, but I like the idea that Otis is with my Grandpa and all the dogs and cats we've lost, and that I will see her again someday.

I love you, Otis. Forever.

Sarah

From High School!

I've been spending a lot of time at my Dad's since my dog, Otis, died. At home, everything I see reminds me of her and it's painful. I haven't had the heart to write about her passing yet.

If you're friends with me on Facebook, you'll know I've decided to write a memoir of my struggle with mental illness, family relationships, blood issues, etc, plus, one really awesome dog. It'll take a while, but I think it will be worth it.

But I digress. At my dad's house, I found a folder of old essays and papers I wrote in my junior year of high school for my English class.

This one is my favorite. It made me laugh. I remember writing it one night at my Dad's kitchen table. I had missed a day of school and was making up homework. There weren't really rules about what to write, so, I asked my dad for ideas. He randomly told me this story, and I wrote it down...


"Many, many years ago, my dad, then a 28 year old bachelor, went through the tedious yearlong process of having a house built. Until the fateful time came, he was blissfully unaware that it was his decision to make about the color scheme of the walls and carpets. Being a single young man with no knowledge of what colors go with what and no girlfriend or wife to guide him, he turned to the biggest female influence in his life-- his mom. She was happy to give him advice in all the areas that he questioned her about, plus many subjects he didn't ask about. Overwhelmed with his mother's advice about acceptable color palettes, he took the safe route and colored all the walls the same- white- with the same carpet- beige- in every room.

He was very excited about being able to add his personal touches and thought long and hard about what kind of dog he wanted: big or small? Black, brown or white? What breed? He thought this through and proceeded to get a cat.

On his first night in his new house, he went shopping for food since his fridge was empty. He bought a Tombstone pizza, went home, set the oven to 375 degrees, and put the pizza in the oven. About 10 minutes later, smoke began wafting from the oven and the smoke detector began screaming. Alarmed, my dad hurried to see what was wrong. The problem? He had forgotten to remove the cardboard from the bottom of the pizza.

He wasn't quite sure how to turn the smoke alarm off so he went into the utility room and shut off the main breaker to the house.

The next day he had take-out from El Matador."


I know I always say it but I'm gonna try and write more!!

Sarah