I’ve never told anyone this in detail, but perhaps it is time for it to be heard…

December 12, 2015 was a Saturday. My dad and I had decided to go skiing in Nakiska. My brother was still a bit too young to ski and my mom has never found skiing enjoyable so it was just the two of us. We drove out to Nakiska in the morning, and spent the day skiing, probably mostly sticking to green, maybe blue, runs because at that point, I wasn’t that great at skiing. I enjoyed it, but I lacked skill and confidence.

After a day on the hill, we sat in the car in order to drive back home. I was sitting in the backseat, diagonal from the driver’s seat. Outside, the sky was overcast with clouds and because it was winter, darkness had started to creep in, even though it was probably only five o’clock. We had already driven out of the mountains when my dad pointed out some deer that were standing on the side of the road. I watched through the window as we drove by them. I remember that there was a group of deer, not just a single one. Perhaps they were a small herd or part of a herd.

A couple minutes later, my mom called.

My dad had a device that connected to his phone through Bluetooth that allowed him to answer calls and also functioned as a speaker. So I heard every single word of the conversation. My mom had called because she was concerned about my dog, Lada, who had collapsed in our living room. She could barely move and seemed in pain. I don’t remember the exact words or how the phone call ended, but I remember how the cheerful atmosphere with conversation and a general feeling of happiness to be on the way home after a tiring day turned to a silent one filled with fear and dread. It’s crazy the way one event can change a whole day…

The rest of the drive was silent. I could feel the determination my dad had to get home. Both of us were scared. My parents had gotten Lada before I was born, I think a little after they bought and moved into our house, so she had always been in my life. I couldn’t imagine a life without a dog. She had always been there, had always been present in my life, even before I could walk or talk.

We got home and my parents managed to transport Lada into the back of the car by carrying her on a blanket. The blanket was dark blue and had a pattern with yellow stars and moons. My mom asked me if I wanted to stay home and eat dinner but I decided that I would go with my dad. I had no thoughts about food at that point, even though it probably had been a while since I’d eaten. The only feelings I had were ones of uncertainty and fear.

We drove to an emergency vet clinic that was open 24 hours and Lada was carried inside, still on the same blanket. I don’t remember exactly what happened inside; it’s all a bit of a blur. I do remember that my dad and I were taken to a separate room and eventually, a lady, probably a vet tech, came in. She told us that the sack around Lada’s heart had filled with fluid, which is what had caused her to collapse. I think she might’ve told us that there was a possibility to drain the fluid, which would give her perhaps a couple extra months, or to put her down. She left us in order to allow us some privacy. My dad called my mom and told her the situation.

We waited for my mom and brother to arrive. It might’ve been 10 or 15 minutes, yet it felt like eternity. My dad and I were both crying. He was crying quietly, perhaps not wanting me to see, and I was full on sobbing. I think that is the only time I’ve seen my dad cry. While I can only guess how he was feeling, I know I definitely felt that it was unfair. It was unfair that Lada would never turn eleven (it was close to her birthday) and I would. It was unfair that I would never get to play with her again. And so I sobbed, as though that would change anything.

My mom and brother arrived. We were taken to a different room. It was dark and Lada was lying there on a counter. I remember at some point my mom had asked through her tears, “Is she in pain?”

I don’t remember the vet tech’s answer.

We said our last goodbyes in that dark room. The vet tech asked us a series of questions. Did we want an impression of her paw? As we petted Lada for the last time, the vet tech explained how it would happen. Two simple injections. It wouldn’t hurt. She asked my mom to take my brother out of the room. He was young and for him to witness it wasn’t the best idea. I could’ve stayed but I chose to go out in the hallway with my mom and brother. I didn’t want to watch it happen.

We sat down against the wall in the dimly lit hallway. I don’t know if my brother understood what was happening. Tears were still dripping out of my eyes. After a couple minutes, my dad and the vet tech came out of the room. She was gone.

Eventually, we made it home. My mom made me eat dinner because I hadn’t eaten earlier. I couldn’t really taste the food but I forced myself to eat.

I don’t remember the rest of the evening. It had been fairly late when we got home so I probably ended up heading off to bed. After all the crying I had done at the vet clinic, I felt empty. I had never lived without a dog. She had always been around…

What had started off as a great day, ended up being one of the worst days of my life.