Kona died on a Monday morning. It was a clear January day, sunny and bright and crisp – just the kind of weather that would have us out at the beach on a different day. It was her favorite kind of day, but that’s only because it meant an outing. She was always happy as long as she was with me, so if it were raining she would have loved that too, if it translated to a walk. As it were, we were taking a short ride.

I knew the end was coming. I knew it for months. She was 13 years old, which was already old for a Labrador, and she had cancer that had spread to the lymph nodes by the time we caught it. The vet took out the biggest lump last summer, and he gave her a six month prognosis. She outlived that by a few months.

It was clear she was dying because she, for months, had begun a slow downward spiral. She lost weight, she had more lumps on her body, and she started forgetting where to use the bathroom. When she did remember, arthritis slowed her down a lot. There were a few days where she could not get up at all during the day. I thought she was going to die on Christmas Day 2008.

But then she had her good moments. She still wanted to come for a walk the day before I put her down. She also smelled that I was feeding yummy table scraps to Inca, our younger Lab, on the porch, and made the huge effort to walk in from the yard to have some. Her spirit was still strong. Her body was weak. It came to a point where there were more bad moments than good.

I kept hoping she would make it to the next occasion. Hold out until New Year’s Day, I thought. And then it became, Wait for Barack Obama’s inauguration. I realized I was being silly – and selfish. Actually, she passed on Martin Luther King’s holiday.

Oh, my Kona. She was a sweet girl. She was a lady-like, elegant dog who didn’t like to step in mud puddles, and who crossed her front paws when she laid down. She was calm and polite, knew some fun tricks, understood what “bird” and “walk” meant, and called a cat her best friend. She was my first dog. She was my best girl, before I even had a girl.

I feel bad that I could have, should have, done more for her in her last years. When I was single, she was with me as much as possible: to work, on errands, to the beach on my days off. After I got pregnant in 2006, that changed.

But then again, I think she led a pretty good and interesting life. Maybe better than some people, even. She was on television a couple dozen times as either the feature subject (like pet psychics), or making a cameo in the background. She was photographed with me on some newspaper stories. And she was a bigger star than any of her human friends, with a modeling portfolio that included a national Eddie Bauer clothing catalogue. She was also the flower dog in my wedding.

I still remember the time she jumped off the second story of a friend’s house, because she saw huge, fat, tempting, white geese swimming in the lake outside. That crazy dog! She landed, luckily, in hedges below, and, unfazed, scrambled to the shore and dove in. She then swam in circles after the birds for a half an hour, while we screamed at her from the shore to Get! Back! Here!

She managed to catch up to one of the geese and tried to chomp her jaws into its butt, but its tail feathers made the goose’s rear so large, she couldn’t get a grip on it. Plus, it kept swimming around in tight circles, with her in hot pursuit. What a circus. The neighbors – the flock’s owners – were none too pleased at this foul play.

With her passing, I’ve lost more than a good friend. Kona’s death represents the end of a chapter of my life. She was with me through my single, childless era. So much has evolved in my life since Kona entered it. Through the good and the bad, that dog was the only constant, and she always let me know she was there with her gentle, steadfast energy.

When I got her, I was living in an apartment in Pauoa, and she would wait for me to come home from my morning anchor shift. I would take her running or swimming four days a week. We would stay out for hours. We had a good time together.

Kona was with me through boyfriends and breakups, through apartments and roommates, friendships and disappointments, and for my marriage and my baby’s homecoming. I brought her to triathlon training and grad school classes. I taught her to swim onto my surfboard when she wouldn’t wait for me on shore. We would swim to Flat Island and walk the Lanikai loop after. She participated in the arc of my young adult life.

In this last week, I noticed she had a dozen sores break out all over her body. They weren’t from lying down. They were at the top of her body and head. I tried medicating it, but the sores just got worse. When I noticed pus on them, I knew I had to call the vet. They told me to bring her in; I had a feeling I wouldn’t be taking her back.

I couldn’t sleep the night before. I woke up at 3 a.m. and started crying, and couldn’t stop for most of the day.

That morning, she seemed tired and wobbly on her feet. After breakfast, my dad carried her to the yard to use the bathroom before we went into the car. She stood where he placed her, confused and staring at the wall.

My parents loved Kona, too. I come from a house of animal lovers, and I grew up with dogs, cats, fishes, turtles, rabbits, birds, and rodents. My parents kindly offered to come with me to the vet. I brought Inca, in case there were goodbyes to be said.

The vet placed Kona on the table and confirmed it was time to put the dog down. She was old, and she just wasn’t going to get any better. She was running a slight fever, and was listless. The vet and I both thought Kona was not in pain, but just very tired. The vet gave me the choice to leave now or stay until the end. I wanted to be with my old girl until the end. I didn’t want her to die alone.

We went through a box of tissue while saying goodbye. I’d like to think dogs are emotionally intelligent and that she intuited most of it. At one point she tried to get up and jump off the table, like she would have in her better days, but this time, she was too weak.

The technicians finally came in and prepared the dog by shaving her leg and inserting a catheter. They prepared us, too, for what to expect. The vet would come in, inject a painkiller, and she would go unconscious in minutes. Then the vet would inject the euthanasia, and that would also take effect in minutes. They assured me it would be painless and fast.

I sobbed while taking off her collar to bring home with me. I hugged her and cried. I told her I loved her and that she would be in a better place. The vet entered the room and started the procedure. My parents held her paws, and I held her head and stared into her eyes.

The first drug went in her veins. “I love you, Kona. Good girl,” I whispered to her. I hoped she heard me or felt my message. I hope that was her last thought. Her eyes quickly faded and drooped half-shut. She looked peaceful.

The second drug, the euthanasia, went in next. Her body seemed to sink into the table just a little bit more and her breath slowed to a stop. She was gone. This felt surreal. Was this really happening?

The vet then put a stethoscope to Kona’s chest and confirmed her heart – that heart of gold - had stopped beating. My own heart broke a little. I put my hands over Konas’ eyes and shut them. We all cried more. I’m glad she was surrounded by all the people who loved her best: me, my parents, Inca.

It was her last gift to me, really, to be able to take her in and say goodbye on my time, rather than discover her body in the yard. Kona was always such a giving, loving animal. It was painful, but I felt closure to be able to witness the end and know I could say all the final things to her that I wanted to.

My parents took Inca and moved towards the door. “Give me one more minute in here.” I said. “I’ll meet you guys out front.” And then we were alone again – just the two of us – like it was in the first days. I held her head in my hands again and kissed that lovely snout, stroked the petal soft ears, felt the soft fur. “I love you. Thanks for being my friend. You loved me so perfectly. I’m sorry I loved you so imperfectly. And thanks for still understanding,” I sobbed.

I walked out and down the hallway with such a heavy heart. Halfway down, I turned around for one last look, just wishing I could run back and reverse everything that happened and make her well and take her home with me. I saw her body through the door’s window, just lying there like she was sleeping. I turned around and left.

ON GRIEF
The day she died, I came home and cried every few hours. I moved through my day, but I felt dull. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I also cried every few hours. I cried myself to sleep, but woke up at 1 a.m. and cried until dawn. I wept: sitting up in bed, at the edge of the bed, pacing the room, before finally trying to distract myself in my office. I couldn’t.

I am lucky to say I hadn’t before lost anyone this close to me in my adult life. It hurts. I know you’re supposed to move through the grief, but I wish it wasn’t part of the process. It feels terrible.

My sweet husband held me, but eventually, I felt restless with grief. I walked to the porch where the dogs – now dog – sleeps. Inca was startled and confused to see me at 2 a.m. My appearance off schedule always prompts suspicion from Inca (never from Kona, who just expected food or a petting- gosh, those dogs were so different), and she always runs a few feet away, in case it’s a grooming.

I needed to commune with the next closest being to Kona. I needed to connect with a dog, even if it wasn’t my Kona. I sat down, and Inca came back, excited at this unexpected visit. I put my arms around Inca and sobbed.

I think Inca knew something was different, too. She had been subdued all day, and she’s normally hyper and jumpy. When our friend stopped by earlier that day, she did not bounce around. She sat quietly at the gate and thumped her tail.

“Do you miss her too?” I asked Inca. “Did you see her go? Is she OK now? Has she come back to visit yet?” I put my head down against Inca’s head and wept. I sat on the porch weeping for a while with Inca’s head in my lap. I promised to be a better dog mom to her. I was really good with Kona, but Inca has never gotten my undivided attention. “You’re the alpha dog now. You’re a good girl,” I sniffled, then went in the house.

What do you do with your grief? What do you do when you lie there in bed and can’t stop crying? I wasn’t even thinking about memories anymore. I was just feeling a wave of pain and letting it wash over me and run through me. It ebbed and flowed but it kept coming, and I was exhausted. I couldn’t sleep. My eyes were so red and puffy that I kind of looked like a different person. How long does grief last?

MOVING ON
The immediate pain wore away after a few days, but grief unfortunately has its own lifecycle and comes and goes, intruding when I think the pain is almost over. And yet it has a place; it reminds me of how potent and vital and valuable relationships are. I’m so thankful that she offered me a balance when my life was up and down and incomplete.

Only a day after she died, the vet’s office called to say the ashes were ready. I asked a friend to pick it up with me. It was a hard visit. When the receptionist handed me the box of ashes, I cried. The box was small in my hands, but it felt heavier, weighted down with sorrow. It’s my Kona in that box, I thought.

I asked to go to the beach and sit with her. I thought about all the things Kona would have loved to do there. I cried more. And I surprised myself by feeling unable to part with the ashes. I was going to have a memorial at her favorite beach and scatter her ashes in the ocean, but I don’t think I’m ready for that.

I tossed the box on the banister (away from Olivia’s small hands) when I arrived home and didn’t look at it again for weeks. That was deliberate. Then, one day, I was ready to move it to a special place in the house. When I picked up the ashes, I froze into place for a couple minutes and started weeping again. That box is apparently a touchstone of sadness, and every time I handle it, it seems to give heft to the pain.

Maybe one day I might want to give her a doggie funeral. For now, I just want to find my peace with her passing. When I’m sad, I try to breathe through the feelings and slowly, I feel her in my heart again.

It was hard at first to imagine no more Kona around here. It’s still weird to look outside and not see double dog. It’s the small things that set me off, like automatically preparing two meals for breakfast, then realizing there is now only one dog. Or seeing Kona’s collar hanging on the rack, when it should be around her neck.

I miss that old girl, my best girl. I sure was lucky to have her in my life. I like to think of her running around some dog heaven, having a good old time, waiting for us at the beach. And maybe if I’m as good a person as she was a dog, I’ll get to meet her there one day.