After close to fifteen years with my beloved pug, Mia, suddenly “it was time” for her to go.I adopted Mia with a little age on her and teased her often that I got her “used.” Always a poker-faced pug, I still believe she found that comment amusing.
I dubbed my pensive dog “The Perfect Pug” early on when she not only grasped that life had rules, but believed it right for everyone to follow them. A bark to go out was to be honored as much as a call to come in. The course her nose took us on walks was to be respected as much as what my eyes could see ahead. Had either of us strained at the leash, or been defiant and deaf to the other’s urges, we would never have reached that level of respect she conveyed from six inches above the ground, and I from nearly six feet.
In her younger, healthier days, she could sail out the kitchen door, clear the porch steps, leap on top of a four-wheeler seat, and tip-toe her way to the white box mounted at the front just for her. Car rides meant the Vet, but a trip on the four-wheeler meant fresh air, freedom, and lots to see. Mia spent many hours in that box, including a large number of them even when it sat parked in the yard.
As she aged, the front porch glider became the maximum height Mia could manage, and from there she and I would sit together and watch the road, birds, squirrels, and the pesky neighborhood cat. After a while, even that seat became too much of a leap, so I graciously air-lifted her to the cushion next to me where the cat eventually joined us.
Pugs tend to be peaceful by nature, and Mia was no exception. She’d bark, not growl, at a knock at the door or any sound that resembled it, gave pug-sized warnings to people she didn’t recognize until assured they were okay, disliked but tolerated baths, and endured all sorts of medical pokes and prods throughout her life. In all the years I knew her, only one living creature earned the title of arch enemy—a rat terrier named Penny. Playmates at first, eventually visits to Penny’s house meant cages for both of them, my Perfect Pug growling threats through the bars which Penny returned, both of their hackles raised. Why Penny? Why not the annoying neighborhood cat or my granddaughter who dressed Mia in tutus? I suppose I’ll never know who started it or why forgiveness was never an option since now both of them are gone—by natural causes, thankfully, rather than by tooth and claw.
Mia also gained the title of “The Brilliant Pug.” Maybe all of the treats she earned sharpened her awareness and made her keenly attentive to household protocol, but she never missed a chance to relieve herself outside, hurry to her bed at night, suffer visits to the Vet, or tackle anything else that landed a treat at her feet. Because she was quick to equate good deeds with rewards, she cleverly overdid her means of letting me know she had to “go” by abusing them. When the bells hanging from the doorknob were jangled every few minutes, I changed the method of alerting me she “needed” to go out to a short bark. When barking turned to “the dog who cried wolf,” I trained her to notify me with just a look. Which she did, in the form of a stare that could unravel the most stoic of persons, a hunched focus without a blink. Conceding defeat and declaring Mia the winner of our duels of wit, she still retaliated by perfecting the fake-potty-squat, a ploy I chose to reward rather than bend close enough to the ground to check.
Unfortunately, Pugs also live rather short lives. Mia, though, went for the long haul. Even when age and health issues slowed her down, she kept plodding along…mostly for the treats. It felt odd to lift a pug, who used to leap to the top of a four-wheeler, up one step. As her eyesight failed, her “Brilliant Pug” skills kicked in, and she taught herself routine paths between bed, box, the door, the yard, and the front of the refrigerator where she received her reward. Ultimately the biggest indicator that my sober-faced pug’s life wasn’t what it used to be was the day the curl went out of her tail. No amount of love, treats, or assistance wound it back up, leaving Mia with a straight tail drooping behind her.
When I fussed and worried over Mia in her last couple of years, I gave little to no thought to the day I’d finally hear, “It was time.” I began to discern what the Vet wasn’t saying each time I took Mia in for some fix to whatever new problem had cropped up. In all her kindness, Mia’s Vet’s expression told me my pug had grown old and there was little that could be done. Not a victim of a deadly disease or an incurable malady, Mia suffered a heap of consequences from living long…and well.
It wasn’t until Mia’s last day that I heard those three words for the first time, and many times afterward from family and friends who had also loved and lost pets. I came to understand and slowly accept it was time, for Mia’s sake, and even mine, though it didn’t feel like it. Each condolence that ended with those words, worked in me the deep understanding of the gift Mia had been. We had our time together and now it was time to part. As if a divine hand took her one way and me another. It wasn’t time just because Mia became old and her health ran out. It was time because she was being moved on. And so was I. New starts that continued with and from the fullness of our years together.
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Colleen L Donnelly is a #1 Amazon Bestselling Author of Historical Fiction and Romance. Born and raised in the Midwest, and a scientist by career, she has also traveled, loves to read, and explore the outdoors. A person who has endured her own dilemmas and observed those of others, she is always searching for the next good story.
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