I lost my best friend a year ago today. Pacey died in his sleep due to complications with heart heartworms. There has never been anything more heartbreaking in my 24 years than waking up to find him lifeless in his bed. So today is a sad day, but it’s also about remembering the best things about the dog who changed my life. Here’s a few things he taught me.
1. Disabilities don’t hinder connection.
When I adopted Pacey, I knew he was deaf and a little bit advanced in years, so I knew there would be complications that came with that. I’d never had a deaf dog, and I really wasn’t prepared for all that that would mean for trying to parent and discipline him. But what I found was that his disability did not lead to disconnection - it led to a deeper connection. In his deafness, he had to stick close and watch me constantly - and vice versa. We were forced to pay attention to each other in ways that would be missed if I could’ve just called to him from the other side of the house. There was something special about being able to communicate with just hand signs and body language, instead of yelling commands and begging him to obey.
2. Life is better unhurried.
Pacey was probably the least excitable pug on the planet. I don’t know if that was due to him not being able to hear noises that normally excite other dogs, but his life was all naps and treats and snoozing and cuddles. He lived life at a slower pace than the rest of us. When he was asleep, he would stay asleep until he wanted to wake up. Being deaf meant that nothing could wake him up until he was ready, so he would sleep through everything, all the commotion that life entails. It reminded me of Jesus sleeping out on that boat in the middle of a storm - not worried and unhurried - and I want to live more like that.
3. Bitterness breeds death.
Shortly after Pacey’s diagnosis with heartworms, the Lord brought to my attention verses about wormwood and roots of bitterness, and He painted this metaphor for me comparing what Pacey was going through and the spiritual implications of a life of bitterness. He told me that wormwood (bitterness, malice, unforgiveness) leads to death as quickly and seriously as heartworms do when untreated - and that the treatment itself can seem so painful that the resurrection power is necessary for full victory. Unfortunately nothing more could’ve been done for Pacey, but there’s still hope for your heart and mine.
4. We all need help.
It’s hard to imagine if you’ve never had a pet to call your own, but finding Pacey dead that morning was sincerely one of the most heart wrenching experiences I’ve ever been through. Nothing could have prepared me for the grief and all that comes with that. That moment brought me to my knees like nothing else had. I remember feeling for the first time in maybe my whole life that I needed help. Pacey’s death came at the end of two weeks of disaster after disaster. I could not catch a break. Honestly, Job looked like the luckiest guy in the world compared to me at that point. So I sat there on the floor of my house finally feeling for the first time that I couldn’t do life alone or on my own anymore, that it was too hard to go through all of this without my person, and that has been the most motivating force of the changes I’ve made this year and will continue to make in his honor.
5. You can’t save everyone.
When Pacey was diagnosed with heartworms, I had no idea, of course, that it would eventually kill him. He was put into treatment immediately, but the treatment is just so hard on dogs - especially of a certain age. Nonetheless, it seemed promising that he would make it, and I made every precaution I could. Because the treatment was so hard on his heart, he wasn’t allowed to have any exercise or excitement. This went so far as to not allow him to even jump up on furniture, so my whole living room was barricaded, confining him to his bed. I hated seeing him on the other side of that barricade, knowing he couldn’t just come over and sit on the couch with me, but I wasn’t going to risk his heart for the sake of my comfort. When he died from the treatment regardless, I can’t tell you how much I felt like the biggest failure in the world, like the worst mother and completely incapable of taking care of another life. The reality is that he had the heartworms before he came to me, and they had just become a bigger burden than we realized when we started the treatment. He was old and had had a hard life before being rescued that we knew nothing about. If the grieving process has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t save everyone - but you can love them. You can give them the best year of their life, and sometimes a year is all you get.