Zac's Death Day
Our family’s morning routine is pretty much the same every school day.
We wake up, dress, and Zac, our lead border collie, gets the goats into the parlor. Matthew milks the goats while the kids, along with Zac and Sam (our baby border collie), head to my mom’s for breakfast and to pack school lunches.
But yesterday was different.
Normally eager to jump in the car and head to Gramma’s, Zac walked a few feet, laid down, and told us very simply, “thanks but no thanks.” Respectful of his wishes I went back to my routine, which required finding Banzai to get in the car so we could leave.
Banzai, who is almost always on a side quest of his own design, didn’t hear me calling.
Zac had found him and was asking to be let into the Memorial Garden. Banzai, being especially tuned into the wants and needs of animals, gladly opened the gate for him.
The Memorial Garden is the vision of my Mother, who rather than attending grief therapy after my Dad died, poured her heart into the creation of a special garden where we place our dead. My Dad is buried there, all four of my Grandparents, Matthew’s Grandma, our best friend’s Dad and Dog, and a handful of other beautiful souls that meant everything to us but others would simply recognize as more cats and dogs.
It’s a place full of beauty and story, honor and remembrance, and we feel lucky to have it on the farm.
I eventually found them, Banzai running towards me and Zac permanently placed at the pond next to my Dad. It was there he looked in my eyes and told me, “It’s time.”
And I nodded, knowing that he was right.
A few months ago Zac developed a reverse sneeze that we thought was the result of picking up dust on the trail behind the horses. The vet was initially optimistic, not thinking it was cancer, so we treated him for infection. He did get better, but he kind of lingered in a “still sickly” state.
So we sought out more answers. A few more vet visits and we learned that Zac likely did have cancer and it was spreading at a rapid rate into his nasal passages and onto his gums.
But he still managed to find joy. He loved our walks, still rode with the horses, and found pleasure in bringing the goats in. Every night Matthew and I told ourselves, “not yet.”
Until Zac made it clear he was ready to cross over.
Originally planning to meet up with our vet when the time came, once he asked, we couldn’t make him wait any longer. As farmers we have the skills and wherewithal to end an animal’s life with no suffering—how grateful we felt to be in a position to make Zac’s transition to the other side instant, beautiful and peaceful.
Which it was.
As far as deaths go, Zac’s was pretty great.
But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hit us hard. The second Zac’s life ended I threw my body over his in a completely unexpected dramatic fashion a la Gone With The Wind, and began to weep.
Gingerly I scooped up his body, cradling him against me, sobbing with every step to his burial.
We placed him next to my dad, who didn’t really like dogs, but valued a good strong work ethic, loyalty, and persistence. Zac was all those things and more.
And in some, “is this real life?” moment, both our cats along with Finchley (my mom’s doodle who farms with us during the day) and Sam, hovered by our sides as we shoveled through our tears—A funeral of six: two humans, two dogs, two cats.
On a crisp Fall day, the maples ablaze with fire, and our hearts torn with hurt we buried the bestest boy there ever was.
We wept for the adventures we had and we wept for the adventures that would never be.
How many trails did we explore together? How many places did we deliver cheese to? How many goats were told they were in the wrong place and promptly moved? That dog gave a piece of himself to me every single day and now that he’s gone he’s taken a piece of my soul with him.
I’m sure I’m not done weeping…but, no stranger to grief, I know the healing process has already begun.
Just as scar tissue forms to protect and strengthen injured skin, scar tissue forms on our grief to protect and strengthen our souls.
The scar will still ache…but it’s in that ache that we are reminded of our own journey as humans—the roads we have traveled, the lessons we have learned, and the love we have shared along the way.
Over time that grief evolves into something that doesn’t hold us back, but allows us to move forward—A source of wisdom and resilience. It teaches us to cherish the present, to hold onto memories, and to find solace in the beauty that still surrounds us.
And so, in between lots of rehydrating to replace all the tears cried from our bodies, we rejoice in the evolving scars of our sorrow and the peace of knowing our best friend is no longer suffering.
I know we’ll meet again someday Zac…even if I can’t find you, I know you’ll find me.
