Haiku

It was almost five years ago that we bought our Pug, Haiku. It was on Saturday, October 29, 2005. She was the runt of her litter and it showed. She was tiny and sweet and so playful.

From the very beginning it was clear - this dog only wanted love. She had to be near us. She panicked anytime we left. She literally followed us around the house. The first few months we put her bed right next to ours - she just seemed to sleep better with us near.

That didn't last long - eventually she made her way into our bed and would sleep between us. But, like most dogs, Haiku was a champion snorer - we couldn't keep allowing her to sleep with us - it made for little sleep for everyone.

With time, she grew more secure in her new home and was able to sleep on her own, in the hallway. Don't worry, we could still hear her snore!


Haiku loved being near us. She always seemed so intelligent - when you talked to her, she would tilt her little head from side as if asking for more clarity or saying, "Really? Tell me more."

Of course, she loved to play and be silly. Pugs are very social dogs - they are bred for companionship. One book I read about Pugs shortly after we bought Haiku, said that Pugs are clown dogs - they love to entertain, to be the center of attention.

Haiku permeated our lives. She was always there. We got her shortly after we moved into our house. She has been here with us for every life change - new jobs, stressful days, and home improvements...

...and the births of our children. This picture is my favorite of Haiku. I was a little over eight months pregnant with Audrey. We were having a cozy morning snuggle.

Haiku was also stubborn. She was difficult to train. She sometimes barked for no reason. She snored like crazy. She always smelled - even freshly from the bath! At about a year old, she started having some pretty significant skin problems - allergies. Over the last four years they progressed and her symptoms got worse and the effectiveness of her treatments lessened.

Yesterday we took her to a vet where we were hoping to find a solution to help her. After his (very thorough) examination of Haiku, he told us of a number of concerns. Some that we were not even aware of. He told us that Haiku was a management case - that we might be able to help her deal with her discomfort, but that we would never be able to cure her.

Adam and I struggled over what to do. The main thing for me was to not keep her for selfish reasons when she was so obviously suffering. I just had no idea how much she was suffering. Her condition had degenerated to the point where, it was clear to me, her little system was just starting to shut down. We didn't want to make her endure anymore of that suffering because of our love for her. So we made the heart-breaking decision to end her suffering by ending her life.

I was not prepared for that decision. I was not prepared for the trauma it was to hold her little body while the technician administered the drug that would stop her heart. I was not prepared for the empty hallway in our home; the home that has always known Haiku feels so empty and quiet without her. Every time I pass by or through the hallway I am shocked at how huge and empty it feels without her food and water and bed and toys. Every meal feels more lonely because we don't have Haiku pacing around our feet, hoping for any morsel that might drop onto the floor (some by accident, thanks to Audrey and Luke, and others on purpose thanks to Adam or me). And the middle of the night misses her too - the absence of the rhythmic sound of her breathing and snoring makes the house feel lonely and vulnerable, somehow. I was not prepared for any of these things. And I'm not sure if I'm prepared for the coming days as the reality truly sets in that a member of our family is gone, and will not be coming home.

I do feel peaceful about that most difficult decision, for Haiku's sake. She was suffering and we didn't want to extend that for our sake. But it doesn't, and will never, negate the fact that that was the most difficult and heart-breaking decision we have ever had to make. And it doesn't mean that we didn't love her. And it doesn't mean that we will not miss her; we will miss all of her, annoying habits and all.

We love you, Haiku. We miss you so much. And we know that you are at peace, no longer in pain.


You will always be in our hearts... until we meet again.