The Silence is Deafening

There's a gaping stillness in my home, with Kula Buttercup, gone. I heard her say, "Today is a good day to die."

The blade of a clean stainless knife unexpectedly sliced deep into me on that day that shall not be named.

Except it must be named, it must. Monday, May 13, 2024.

She waited for me to be back in Alaska, here, near, and I’m so grateful, even as my heart shattered.

In 2013, my little buttercup girl, a white Labrador Retriever, wiggled her way into my heart, her steady gaze persistent, and soft. Kula’s accompaniment through relationships, illness, moving, letting go of meaningful work, a significant death, and beginning anew, again, again, again, her soft fur, brown eyes, and beating heart always near. She and me, always together.

For ten and a half years my Kula Buttercup slept with me, sparkled love and light, and at every moment possible, was one or two feet from me.

Now, a large fist sized tumor in her spleen mysteriously made itself known after my three pack, now two, absconded three battery operated candles on a Friday at noon. While I was out to lunch, small pieces of plastic and silicone busted into pea size lumps all over the carpet, battery bases intact, thank God.

They’d eaten them, Big Papi the main culprit hurled most of that night every 45 minutes, and thus had an X-Ray scheduled for Monday. Saturday night Kula vomited half an hour after I gave her new medicine to treat a low thyroid, and continued low red blood cells, since her pancreatitis episode last August.

Sunday morning, she didn’t want to move for nearly six hours—this was a first. A call to the emergency vet advised, let her rest, no food or medicine until tomorrow. This was after I’d finally gotten her up midday, she gulped water, went outside to relieve herself, came in, and promptly hurled the water back up. By Monday, she’d perked back up. I called to cancel Big Papi’s X-Ray–he was fine. It appeared all three had pooped the plastic and silicone candle particles.

But. Dr. Deb called back to request, “Please bring Kula in, I want to see her.” We’d been chasing her low red blood cell count for months and treating it. Kula ate her breakfast, we walked into the vet, she leaned a into my calf, closer than usual.

Dr. Deb explained that just to be sure about the candles and any potential blockages, let’s do an X-Ray. Several minutes passed, me thinking of the enormity of my to-do, and must-do’s, now that I’m back in Alaska with my lodge and my parents RV Park to spring clean and get ready for summer guests. I’ve been gone for months on and off, mostly in California after my beloved brother suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm in February. Time in 2024 is a blur.

Dr. Deb came back in the exam room. “Come with me,” she said.

She showed me an image on the computer screen, compared it to August 2023. Kula’s spleen was now obscured by a large shape. A tumor, she said. Back and forth we went. More scans, had it spread? Me googling and learning about grim outcomes.

Thoughts and discernment moved through me:

Shall I do surgery–could it give her time? What if I do nothing?

Deb patiently answered my questions as I wrote out pros and cons on the back of the paper that described the costs of the surgery. I wrote columns on the paper, with options, outcomes. Logic and facts marrying emotion and love. If I decided to do surgery, they could do it immediately, or the next morning. Either way, there were only months, if that.

I needed time. This is too big for a quick yes or no right now.

Kula came back into the exam room and was moving much slower than earlier. I tentatively scheduled surgery for the next morning, though it could be done immediately, and said I’d pray and weigh options, and call in a few hours to confirm.

I learned that an ultrasound revealed blood was beginning to ooze into her stomach in a few spots, and if the vascular tumor burst, she would bleed out into her stomach and die withing hours. Dr. Deb had thought we had a week at most, if doing nothing. She’d also added, “Kula might choose for us.”

My girl and I walked to my Tahoe. Kula stopped a few times, tripped, then climbed in through the back seat, laid down in the back, stared at me.

I thought, I can’t wait if she needs surgery. They can do it now. One of the other Labradors can be a blood donor if she needs a blood transfusion.

I shut the door, walked to the back, opened the hatch, placed my hands on either side of Kula’s beloved furred face, and her brown eyes gazed at me.

I kissed her forehead, whispered, “What do you want to do sweet girl?”

I heard clearly, through the gift of clairaudience, “Surgery scares me. No surgery. I have loved and lived. Today is a good day to die.”

My eyes got hot. Stung. I petted her in the parking lot, stroking her head, told her, “No surgery.” Kissed her, shut the hatch, went back inside, asked Dr. Deb to come to the car with me. We stood at the back, my hands again on Kula-girl, who rested, not moving. Time rapidly advanced, and I understood there wasn’t much of it remaining. I asked, “Is this justified, today?” Dr. Deb smiled sadly at me, nodded “Yes.”

I smiled with a courageous, fracturing heart. Resolute, said, “I’ll call, I need to take her home now.”

A few minutes later at our home, I backed in toward the deck and river, opened the hatch, crawled in back with my girl, leaned against the back seat. Kula adjusted her body and stretched herself along my leg. Rain began. Then it poured. Dripped from the open hatch. I sobbed, telling her how much I loved her.

What do I do, what do we do … I begged God for clarity, even though I knew. I breathed deeper. As the rain stopped, a breeze came up, and I called the vet clinic: “Can I bring her at 4:30 today?”

“Yes.”

By now, Kula wasn’t moving, yet she rallied when my friend Regina arrived to feed me and be with us, bringing sandwiches and cookies. The deck dried off quickly in the wind, and I lifted Kula from the Tahoe, she walked to her favorite spot and laid down. We sat with her, she so quiet. I cried. Cried. Cried. We talked of our walk on Ski Hill Trail last week, getting to the turn-around spot on the trail at 1.5 miles, and both of us realizing Kula wouldn’t be able to make it back, even though she wouldn’t let on how tired she was. Regina and her pup Eska ran back to the trail head, while Kula and I made our way to the nearby road. They picked us up in her mini cooper, each of us with a pup on our lap. Kula was so delighted with the woods, smells, sunshine—time on the trail with us.

Regina departed when my friend Bonnie came. Minni and Big Papi, the three-year-old Labradors came out, but Tia Kula didn’t move. We anointed her, played an original song Bonnie wrote when it was time for her grandchildren’s beloved dog to pass, and we listened to birdsong. Thick dark clouds blew by, and blue sky peeked out with sun rays beaming. I cried and kissed her over and over.

At 4:00, the other two pups back inside, I asked Kula if she wanted to go to the river, her favorite spot. She looked up at me with interest.

I knew she couldn’t make the long stairs and walkway, and I couldn’t carry her 86 pounds. Yet, she stood up, and we walked to the landing to overlook the land and the Kenai River, atop the first set of stairs. I sat, and she leaned into my lap. I prayed, sorrow and gratitude in my soul. She rested her head and weight upon my legs, my hands buried in her fur.

The wind picked up. It was time. We walked to the Tahoe, and I helped her in. By the time we arrived at the vet, I had to lift her out of the car, and she collapsed on the sidewalk. She rallied, peed, pooped, and slowly walked inside, head up. We went into our room, and she laid upon the bed they’d made, some of the ladies came in to tell her they loved her, then she got up, walked to the corner by the door, threw up, and laid down on the floor. I cleaned up her lunch, and curled up beside her, cradling her body in mine, our faces close.

Dr. Deb came in, looked at her gums—they’d turned grayish white now. Looked at her belly and pointed out an undulating pattern visible beneath her fur. Said, “Look. She’s dying now—she did this on her terms. The tumor is bleeding into her stomach.” Today is a good day to die. She let us know, she chose. Hot tears stung my eyes, again. And acceptance.

Bonnie’s voice played over and over through her phone, the recording of beautiful lyrics, “If I was going to pick a night to die … I’d be wrapped in arms that love me…”

I whispered my ten-year mantra, “I love you, I love you, I love you…” I thanked her again and again for companioning me, touching her softest fur, fully stretched beside her on the hard floor.

Long minutes passed, her breathing slowed, and then we helped her along, until her breathing ceased, tears drenching my face skin, as they are once again this night, nearly a week later, the first time I’ve been able to write.

On Friday, I reached a point, with all the all-ness and grief of the past year, and said to Spirit, “I can’t. I can’t do much more. It’s too much.” The two young Labradors leaned into me, saying, “rest awhile with us,” Spirit said, “You are not alone.”

I’ve been crying a lot. Burst into tears several times that week—a friendly voice on the phone, the Culligan water man asking, “How’s your spring been?” Tears. Grief rocks, and more would come.

Days past that Monday, I feel my sentinel guard now and again, then her sparkling energy guiding me, “Let go. I loved. I love you. I lived. It’s okay, my time is complete. I accomplished what I came to do, to be your constant companion, and simply love. Change is coming. Let go. Only love remains. Be free.”

Amen.

Thank you, Kula-girl, for all the happy times with you and me navigating passages. The beauty and kindness in your eyes, our pleasure and comfort. Playtime.

Thank you to my two young Labradors who carry her teachings, presence.

Thank you to Bonnie and Regina for accompanying me on this day, and the family and friends who prayed with me after my heart wrenched texts shared what we were facing, what was to come, and then a RIP Kula Buttercup.

Thank you to Twin Cities Veterinary Clinic for all the months and years of welcoming and caring for us.

Thank you especially to Dr. Deb. Your kindness and accompaniment will never be forgotten.

And thank you to Kula-girl, for waiting for me to come home to Alaska, giving me our last week, and ten and a half years of joy.

“Kula, you are a constant presence whose absence guides me to love, only love.
You call forth the gift of faithful attentiveness, presence.”

RIP Kula Buttercup, 2013-2024

Kula Buttercup--a life well lived. I love you sweet girl of mine. Thank you!.