BY CHARLES COSTELLO
This one isn’t about sports. It’s about life and losing the ones we love.
At 11:45 a.m. last Thursday, my mom and Nellie pulled out of the driveway like they’d done every day for 16 years. It was a daily routine for both: Nellie would go to the bathroom on the front lawn, hop in the car, and head to the park to run, sniff, and make another bathroom stop, perhaps more than one. Only this time, Nellie wasn’t headed to the park. This time, Nellie wouldn’t be coming home.
Nellie, our family dog since 1994, was put to sleep last Thursday. After 16 wonderful years, it was time. I first noticed Nellie’s decline back in August when I returned to my parents’ house at night and let her out to go to the bathroom before she went to sleep. I had done this many times before. It required opening the front door to let her out, and in a few minutes opening the door again to let her back in. But when I let her out that night, out into the darkness, she didn’t return. It took over an hour, a flashlight, a lot of walking, another dog, and a ton of panic before I found her at the bottom of the hill in the backyard. She was standing still, afraid to move, unable to walk back up the hill on her own. You see, Nellie had lost her hearing and much of her sight. She was also in an incredible amount of pain. I carried her up the hill that night, relieved that she was home safe, but sad because this was not the Nellie that I knew. For the next six months, she would limp around the house, fall down constantly, get stuck in corners, and lose a whole lot of weight. All the while, she battled this stage of her life, this final stage, with courage and compassion. Nellie understood how much we loved her, how much it hurt to see her go from a healthy and happy dog to one that was approaching the end. That was Nellie. It was never about her.
The last week of Nellie’s life was the worst. My parents were away for part of it and my brother and I were left to take care of her. Again, she would fall, and now when she got stuck in corners she would cry. And so would I.
I visited Nellie the day before her life came to an end. I held her, laid down next to her, cried, and told her how much I loved her, how great of a dog she was. I would do the same the next morning, and that would be the last time I would ever see my dog.
I was supposed to join my mom on that car ride to the doctor’s last Thursday. Because of a miscommunication, my mom left seconds before I arrived. I didn’t get to carry Nellie out of the house, didn’t get to hold her as she was put to sleep. I feel a lot of regret over that, but then I think that that’s the way Nellie wanted it to be. She would want me to remember her alive, remember all the good times we had over those 16 years.
My girlfriend, Erin, has two cats. We like to joke that I’m the step-father to one (Groucho, who Erin rescued five years ago) and the father to the other (Sunny, who we adopted together back in October). Every day I watch her pick up the cats, kiss them and talk to them and play with them. Groucho and Sunny are her life, and I admire her for that. That’s what Nellie was to me.
When the time is right I’ll get another dog, but there will never be another Nellie. I’ve already got potential names picked out: Torre (for Joe Torre) and Imus (for Don Imus) are at the top of the list. In the end, I’ll love them like I loved Nellie. That’s the way she would want it.
For 16 years Nellie was there as I graduated from high school, graduated from college, and eventually graduate school. For a few years she would join me on my paper route, as I delivered the Stamford Advocate door to door while Nellie stopped to sniff and observe. She would be there through the job changes and the break-ups, through the good days and the bad. She was there for five Yankee championships and one Giants Super Bowl victory. There for Clinton and Bush and now Obama. There for September 11th. There for so much more.
That’s why these last six months were so tough for me. At times I would stay overnight at my parents’ house. I would wake up some mornings and hear Nellie downstairs, struggling to get up after she had taken a fall. I would go down and help her up, only to see her fall again. Toward the end of her life, we would have to lift her up to bring her outside, and do the same to bring her back in. In her healthy days this would have been impossible; Nellie was not a small dog. But in her final weeks and days, she had lost that weight and now I was able to pick her up with ease. In fact, each day it got a little easier. And that broke my heart. Her backside was caving in, she was in a lot of pain, could barely walk, and by now her sight was all but gone. Nellie’s time was limited.
Last Tuesday I was upstairs when I heard my mom on the phone with the doctor. She said she was ready, and they made an appointment for Nellie to be put to sleep at 12 p.m. on Thursday, which left me wondering: Did Nellie know that when she walked from the house to the car that Thursday that she wouldn’t be coming back? When she woke up that morning, did she know that she only had a few hours left? That morning was like so many others. Nellie had walked into the kitchen and fallen down. I picked her up, put her down on her bed and held her one final time. When I looked into her eyes, I could tell she knew. Even Nellie, who for 16 years was full of life and energy and love, knew that it was time.
My dad put it best when he said that Nellie was a great dog, a dog who never gave us any trouble. He would know. For years, Nellie would wait by the door for him to get home from work. When his car pulled into the driveway we would let her out of the house. She would sprint to the driver’s door of his car, tail furiously wagging the entire way. Nellie was always there for us, as we were for her.
If it’s true that dogs are a man’s best friend, then Nellie was mine.
Nellie, may you forever rest in peace.
