My brother’s oldest daughter married in Atlanta this past weekend. It was a lovely ceremony in a large studio space with an expanse of windows that showcased, concurrently, a torrential rain. A friend would later tell me rain on the wedding day is good luck, but our family was already having lots of that: my ninety-five year-old mom, who has Alzheimer’s and who, six months ago was diagnosed with lung cancer, was able to attend. And she was in characteristically good humor.  

When she overheard me telling someone I am sixty-three, she piped up, “I have a daughter who’s sixty-three? No wonder I’m in such terrible shape!”

But luck has limits, and when my husband and I returned home to Chattanooga, we found ourselves with a very sick dog. A trip to the vet suggested Jada had blastomycosis, a fungal infection that had set up camp in her lungs. On the x-ray, it looked like a snowstorm in her chest.

Gone was the punky swagger of the dog who greeted every visitor to the house and everyone she met on our walks with unbridled joy. Gone was the bouncy jig she performed on every trip to the yard; gone was her ravenous appetite for dried liver treats; and gone was her elation at the mere mention of a walk, the best part of which, for her, was splashing around in the supposedly healing spring our road is named for. The magnitude of how terrible she felt was matched by the magnitude of how terrible my husband and I felt watching her suffer.

We didn’t know how long this particular storm would last, or what it might leave in its wake. For a day or so, she felt a bit better, thanks to an umbrella of antifungal meds, an appetite stimulant, pain pills, and a tsunami of love from us.

I have had ten dogs over my lifetime, including Jada and our cockapoo, Poodle. All were pulled from the streets or a shelter. In spite of their inauspicious beginnings, they enjoyed mostly healthy, long lives. Their lives and personalities—what and who and how they loved—were as individual as you and I.

But what is true of all of them is that from the moment I got them, I began letting them go. This is because, when I usher a dog into my life, I fully expect to usher them out of theirs—many years later hopefully, and before they suffer unnecessarily. I am better off acknowledging this is how it will go up front, while it is early in our travels, and the road feels long and leisurely. I don’t dwell on the inevitable loss; but hope that acknowledging it will keep me from being blindsided.

Having a sick dog flips all of my rules about vulnerability and pain-sharing. I didn’t want to talk to friends or family about Jada’s illness, but I did mention it to the pharmacist at Walmart. I had forgotten my morning shingles vaccine appointment, and that afternoon, by way of apology, I told first the young woman at the pharmacy counter about having a sick dog, and then the pharmacist administering my shot.

Neither were interested; neither offered a shred of sympathy. In fact, they all but appeared not to hear me. My guess is that tales of woe run rampant at pharmacies, and any sign of compassion on the pharmacist’s part could be misinterpreted as “Tell me more.” 

I understand this completely. It’s the same wall of deafness I erect when someone says, “I had THE weirdest dream last night,” or “I watched the most interesting movie on the Disney channel.” No, you didn’t, and no, you didn’t.

At the other end of the vulnerability spectrum, there’s that thing where you do share something upsetting with someone, and their loving concern makes things worse. Like, you were able to mostly button up your raw, painful emotions, but then they arch their eyebrows in pity and lay a soothing arm across your shoulder, and you lose it.

Just know this will not happen to you if you take your sorrows to a Walmart pharmacist.

It’s now a week out from my niece’s wedding, and while I haven’t spoken to my brother yet, I assume the monsoon moved on and the happy couple is still happy, thanks or no thanks to the luck of the storm.

Here at home, I am so very, very sad to say, our luck ran out. We thought we had miles to go on the road we were on with Jada, that there were still people to greet and jigs to do and springs to splash in, but I see now that we were in a cul-de-sac. Everything that was wrong with Jada, that had probably been wrong for a while but that we didn’t know about because there were no clear signs, looped endlessly around and back on itself, until, we understood, there was only one way forward.

Rest in peace, Jadabug.

Dana Shavin is an award-winning humor columnist for the Chattanooga Times Free Press, and the author of a memoir, The Body Tourist and Finding the World: Thoughts on Life, Love, Home and Dogs, a collection of her most popular columns spanning twenty years. More at Danashavin.com. Email her at [email protected].