Emma Tess

It’s hard to lose your childhood dog. 

Emma was our beloved miniture schnauzer that we had for 14 years. She was a Christmas present for me when I was 10-years-old. I remember waiting for my brother and sister-in-law to come over so we could all start opening presents. At ten, that was a long wait when you woke up at like 6:00 AM because you were so excited.

I came out of the guest bedroom where I had been trying to take a nap to pass the time. Everyone was looking at me expectantly. “What?” I asked. My brother, still in his coat and standing, motioned toward a small box in the middle of the floor. I recognized it immediately as a Beanie Baby box, as I was a collector. But why would they all be looking at me to open it like it was something huge?

I made my way to the box and kneeled down next to it, gently opening the top. The box was no bigger than 6 inches tall, so it was pretty small. As I looked into the box, I saw a small, dark gray Beanie Baby dog.

Then it’s head moved. 

My mouth dropped. I had been begging for a puppy! And they got me one! I gingerly scooped her up and held her to my chest as I thanked everyone. I don’t remember much else that morning other than taking pictures with a new camera, playing with my new little puppy, and debating on a name for Emma. Dad wanted to call her Tess but mom thought Emma was a good name. I decided that her name would be Emma Tess, then.

 

At 10-years-old, you don’t know the responsibility of taking care of a dog. You’re just a kid. Playing and school and sports took up my time. So while Emma was my Christmas present, she really became my mom’s dog as mom stayed home during the day. 

Mom had Emma well trained. All she had to do when Emma was outside alone and starting to walk through  mom’s garden, mom would just started banging on the window until Emma looked at her. Mom would say through the window, “no” and Emma would just walk out of the garden and back onto the grass. Mom would give her her haircuts too, making Emma look pristine. She brushed her every day and cleaned and combed her little beard. They were inseperable. Even shortly before my mom passed, she’d lay in bed in the mornings and drink coffee while Emma slept behind her, squished between mom’s 800 pillows and the headboard of their bed. You’d know where she was because you could look into the little opening see her little beard and nose sticking out. It was her favorite napping place. 

 

When mom died, Emma wasn’t the same. You could tell she was just melancholy. And I had no idea how to care for her the way mom did. During Emma’s remaining 4 years of life, her health steadily, and then rapidly, declined. I couldn’t keep her as clean as mom could, not with jobs and school. Dad couldn’t either. 

By the summer of 2014, Emma was blind and deaf. She couldn’t eat solid food anymore, just canned. Or, we would even soak her food in hot water to make it soft. Then she just stopped eating.

Truth be told, we should have put Emma down after mom died. She just was never the same and her quality of life declined. She didn’t have the same amount of attention that my mom would give her every day. But we didn’t want to let go of her. She was a part of my mom, and letting her go meant letting another piece of mom go too.

It was the beginning of June when I took her to the vet to be put down. One of our lifelong neighbors came with me as I had planned on going alone since dad had to work. She insisted and I’m glad she did.

The night before, I stayed up late. Got Emma to eat some eggs with milk and then just held her while I cried in the living room recliner. She was wheezing because it had become hard for her to breathe. It would get easier for her after she coughed, but it would come back in a few minutes. I realized that night that she was coughing up dried blood from her lungs.

I put her in bed with me, trying to keep one hand on her to keep her from falling off the bed when she would get up to cough. By 2 in the morning, I had to put her back in her kennel because she had spit up so much on my comforter. I cried as I put her in there, knowing that I couldn’t even sleep with her in my bed one last time.

My neighbor came over earlier in the morning, around 9 or 10. I had Emma wrapped up in a blanket and handed her to my neighbor to hold while I drove to the vet. She gently stroked her head and cooed into her ear that she was going to be with my mom now. Silent tears fell down my cheeks as I drove. 

When we arrived, I took Emma from my neighbor and the gravity of what was about to happen started to kick in. My stomach was tight and I could barely talk. My neighbor was kind enough to talk to the receptionist for me, telling them what I was there for. They were all so very kind and started to offer Emma treats and little pats on her head, telling her she was “a good girl.”

They immediately got us in a room. I elected to go in alone so I could say my goodbyes and be with her when she passed. I couldn’t be with my mom when she died, so I sure as hell would hold her dog when she did.

I sat in a chair with Emma sitting in my lap. She began yelping loudly, screaming almost, which just made everything worse. Because of her lack of sigh and sound, she could smell other animals and people but had no idea where they all were. I struggled to get her to stop, soothing her and trying to comfort her, but she just kept going. The vet came in and gave Emma the sedative to calm her down.

Emma immediately stopped crying, and went limp. Her breathing drastically slowed and she urinated all down my jeans. I knew she was close to being gone just with the sedative in her system. I wept as I held her and stroked her now light gray fur (a stark contrast to the black she was when she was little). I started talking to her through hushed sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” I wept. “I wasn’t a good dog mom to you… not like mom. But now, you get to go home to be with mom and I know she’s waiting for you.”

She continued to breathe shallowly as I cried. 

“We should have let you go so much sooner,” I bawled. “We were selfish and I’m so sorry you’re in this pain. And even though I wasn’t a good enough dog mom to you, I will make sure you aren’t alone when you go see mom.”

The vet came back in with the big shot and asked me to put her on the table. I laid her fragile little body down on the table and pet her side as they inserted the needle. The vet had a stethescope to her heart. They hadn’t even finished injecting the clear fluid into her leg when the vet said, “She’s already gone.” 

She and the technician left the room to give me a little more time. I completely lost it in the privacy of the small room. My little Beanie Baby puppy lay still on the table, no more pain or suffering. But I felt, in that instant, like I had lost my mom all over again. I ran my hands over her body while I wept, trying not to scream. At one point I actually had to pull on my hair to keep from wailing out loud, lowering my head as I did so.

I pulled myself together by the time they came back in, along with my neighbor. I paid the receptionist and had them explain when we would get Emma’s ashes back. I drove home in silence, dropping my neighbor off before going to my own house.

I was greeted by Juliet and Luna. Juliet could sense something was wrong and Luna seemed pretty much unphased. I crawled into the recliner I held Emma in the night before and wailed. Juliet sat by the chair, dutifully waiting for me to hug her if I needed. Luna stared at me in confusion. 

Juliet went through a grieving period even though she and Emma weren’t exactly best buds. She wouldn’t greet dad and I at the door when we came home, didn’t play with Luna, and pretty much just curled up on the couch for a week. I didn’t blame her. 

We still have Emma’s ashes sitting in the dining room in the box they gave them to us in. Dad and I have talked about taking some her ashes to mom’s grave, but haven’t done it just yet. We might still spread them in the yard she loved as well. Or both. We’ve taken our time with it as life has gone on without Emma. 

She will always be my little Beanie Baby puppy, though. I wasn’t there for her when mom died, but I was there for her when it was her time. That, along with knowing she’s with my mom again, makes the pain of letting her go just a little bit easier.