The years we had with Margie just weren't enough

From today's Briefing:

I often wish dogs lived as long as sea turtles. We'd have our furry companions for a good 80 years, maybe longer, and our hearts would break less often.

Two weeks ago, my children and I made the difficult and necessary decision to let our Margie go. She was 12 years old, a member of our family for more than 10 years.

We adopted her from a Scottish terrier rescue group when she was a toddler, the same age as our human toddler, Katie. We brought her into our home when life was mostly normal around here. Mom, dad and two young kids eager to go on walks and snuggle a fuzzy friend.

We never learned why Margie was with the rescue group, but it didn't take us long to suspect that she'd run away from her first home. She was a runner.

We were deceived more than once by her squat legs and slightly chunky body. She would act casually, lounging by the front door. In reality, in those early years, she was waiting for her opportunity to see the world. She'd spy a crack in the door, as a package was delivered or someone was walking in, wiggle her way out and charge for the sidewalk.


Katie Damm and Margie the Scottish terrier  

There was never time to lace up running shoes to chase her. You'd sprint out the door in whatever you were wearing, scan north and south, then fly after her. She could sprint faster than any human for about a quarter of a mile. Then she'd slow down and eventually stop, allowing her people to scoop her up and carry her home.

Most of the time, though, she stood guard. At the front window, watching for squirrels and rabbits. On the sofa, curled atop children's feet. In the kitchen, in case of falling scraps.

Just a few months after she'd settled in as a Damm, we learned that Steve was ill. Margie became his constant companion. She sought him out all over the house — upstairs on the exercise bike, resting on the green chair in the family room, napping in the bedroom.

Our Margie may have not understood the intricacies of brain cancer, but she instinctively knew how to comfort her people — first Steve through his illness and then Cooper, Katie and me in our grief after Steve's death.


Margie stands guard at the door.  

Margie loved neighborhood walks and belly rubs. She loved burrowing in a pile of freshly laundered sheets and towels. She was an especially literate dog, in attendance for hundreds of guided reading sessions and bedtime stories.

She was a majestic mountain of fur, with triangle ears that heard everything and a bark to let us know when it was time to go out, time to come in, time to eat.

In the past couple of years, she had surgery to remove an abdominal growth, and she started slowing down. She took daily medication for a couple of chronic health conditions. She could no longer leap on furniture. She couldn't sleep through the night without needing to go outside for a bathroom break.

And in the past few months, she steadily lost weight despite a healthy appetite.

All of the sudden, she stopped eating altogether and struggled to put weight on her back legs. I knew, though I wanted to deny, that her body could take no more.

The kids and I decided, with our vet's guidance, that it was time.

Katie sat on my left side. Cooper sat on the right. Margie rested in a blanket on my lap. I held her as she took her last breath. We cried and cried and cried.

I like to imagine Margie and Steve reunited, which provides a little comfort as we adjust to life without our pup. We miss the skitter of her paws on the wood floor. We miss morning and evening walks around the block. I sometimes wake in the middle of the night, expecting to hear her bark, crestfallen when I remember the silence.

Yet our hearts will eventually mend, and one day we'll be able to talk about Margie without a lump in our throats.Why do we invite these animals into our lives, these beloved family members who we know won't outlive us? Because they love unconditionally and comfort selflessly and create buckets of joy — even though we don't get to hold on as long as we'd like.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.