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Goodbye, Old Friend

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By MICHELLE BEARDEN | The Tampa Tribune

Published: October 14, 2007

They were such a team, Robert Geller and his best friend, Vienna.

When Geller's love life soured and his business folded, the two sipped Fresca from crystal champagne flutes and dreamed of better days ahead. They were always a pair, wearing matching yarmulkes at Jewish holiday gatherings and taking long walks on Bayshore Boulevard.

Then Vienna did what dogs regrettably do. He got old.

Geller, still in the prime of his life, watched his miniature smooth-haired dachshund grow feeble and incontinent.

On June 11, it was time to say goodbye.

Before making that final trip to the vet's, they lay together on the floor of Geller's South Tampa townhouse. Geller held 13-year-old Vienna's paw and stroked the fur. He bit his lip and choked back tears. He didn't want the little guy to see him cry.

"My relationship with Vienna was the most significant one I've had in my whole life," the 42-year-old says. "And it's lasted longer than any of the human ones."

Geller still grieves for the dog that acted like a person. When he leaves home in the morning for his job in development for The Melting Pot Restaurants Inc., he catches himself calling out "I love you," something he told Vienna every day.

"I'll never stop missing him."

We all love our pets, perhaps now more than ever before. In the United States, 63 percent of us share our homes with animals. All totaled, we give our hearts to 88 million dogs and 16 million cats. This year, we'll gladly forego some of our own wants to spend an estimated $41 billion on our pets. That's nearly double what we spent a decade ago.

The lifetime of an animal is short compared to that of a person. So we know when we fall for an animal, the odds are we will outlive it. And when that happens, the loss can be devastating.

Not everyone understands that grief. Some even scoff at what appear to be maudlin expressions of mourning.

Don't be dismissive of a person's heartbreak, says Jacquie Padow, a volunteer counselor with the Hillsborough Animal Health Foundation. It's a time to give support, not to say, "Get over it, it's only a dog."

"It's hard, it's real and it can be immobilizing," says Padow, a psychologist who makes herself available any time a bereaved pet owner needs to talk. "Some people think something must be wrong with them to feel so disoriented and devastated. But it's nothing to be ashamed of."

It's a feeling that has no boundaries. Men and women are equally affected, Padow says. The rich grieve as deeply as the poor.

Some never get over it.

Matt Labus of Holiday says he can't do it again.

He still hasn't gotten over the death of Lady, the Irish setter he grew up with. He was 19, she 14, when she had to be euthanized. That was 22 years ago.

"She was protective and loyal and loving," he says. "The day my mom had to take her to the vet to put her to sleep was one of the hardest days of my life."

A few years later, someone gave him and his wife a bird. He and Mr. Bird, a mistakenly named female cockatiel, used to whistle back and forth to each other. One day she got her wing trapped in the cage and broke it. A frantic trip to the 24-hour emergency vet clinic turned out to be her last journey.

Years later, after much begging, Labus gave in to his kids and got a hamster named Cookie. Surely a rodent couldn't move his soul. But when the little critter got cancer in its eye three years later and had to be euthanized, Labus said no more. He just can't take it.

"No matter what, the natural course of things means they'll go before you. And the way I fall for animals, I just can't deal with that."

Knowing that animals have a shorter life span doesn't mean pet owners are any more prepared for their passing. And when the goodbye comes suddenly, the pain is that much harder.

That's how it happened for Liz Keiffer when her husband, Peter, backed out of their Tampa driveway in his truck and accidentally drove over Nick, her 17-year-old, nearly blind and half-deaf Lhasa apso. Nick, who came into her life before marriage and three kids, died immediately.

Liz didn't leave the house for four days. Never even got out of her pajamas.

"My world stopped," she recalls. "I completely shut down."

Nick was her "portable pooch," a gift from her parents while attending the University of South Florida. After she married, he welcomed each new addition to the household: two daughters, a son, more dogs, some cats. But for Nick, Liz always came first.

They buried him beside her backyard art studio. Her mother commissioned a portrait that hangs in the kitchen, a constant reminder of the little frou-frou friend who stole her heart.

She thinks she'll be better equipped for the inevitable with Buster, her 15-year-old Labrador, and Caesar, a 10-year-old Great Dane. But maybe not. It helps to draw upon her faith.

"I try to think of them in a better place," she says. "And that one day, we'll all be together again."

Despite the pain of parting, some people can't imagine life without an animal companion. They find ways to heal and they learn to love again. The Rev. Dennis Kezar, rector at St. Mary's Episcopal Church in Tampa, has bonded with his 2-year-old German shepherd, Lili Marlene. But he'll never forget her predecessor.

He adopted 5-year-old Avi, a retired silver brindle greyhound, from a rescue group. He loved the noble, gentle spirit of the ancient breed; he loved how an 85-pound dog could fold into a couch potato. He loved everything about Avi.

When Kezar returned home after a long day, Avi would greet him with a show-off sprint around the pond in front of their home. Once around, just like the days he circled the track in Saratoga for big money.

His last run came at age 13. It wasn't the years that got him, it was his enthusiasm.

Avi ran in a circle, then bounded to Kezar's car for a joyous greeting. Only this time, he skidded into the vehicle, shattering his shoulder. His panicked owner scooped him up and rushed him to the vet.

The priest relied on prayers and the strength of his daughter and grandchildren, who met him at the clinic. Please, dear God, they implored, save Avi. The next day, the vet gently told them the break couldn't be repaired. Having Avi euthanized was the hardest decision Kezar ever made.

For two years, he felt a void that could not be filled. But the day eventually came when he was ready again. With Lili Marlene at his side, he feels complete when he visits the children at St. Mary's Day School.

"It's the price you pay for love," he says of his sorrow. "You open your heart, they come in and fill it. And when they leave, they leave a big hole. But it's just not an option for me to not have a pet. Think of all the love that I would miss."

With all the human tragedy in the world, why are we so devastated by the death of a pet? Why are we burdened with guilt when we end a suffering animal's life?

Because it's such a personal pain.

The Feeling Is Mutual

Laurie Kaplan, author of "Help Your Dog Fight Cancer," says we're typically part of every cycle in that pet's life — from youth to old age. We're responsible for its health and well-being. In turn, we depend on them for comfort and companionship.

And when death ends that relationship, it's normal — and necessary — to grieve, says Kaplan, who lives in New York.

"You can't sidestep it," she says. "The only way to get through it is to go through it. That means avoiding the people who don't understand, and leaning on the people who do. A support system is very important at this time."

When Bullet, her beloved rescue Siberian husky, died a few years ago, she burned a candle for seven days and organized a memorial attended by about 20 friends and family members.

The author directed her lingering sadness to projects that honor Bullet's life: The cancer book, a support group she's starting, online chats on various pet loss Internet sites, and a grief book coming out next year, "So Easy to Love, So Hard to Lose." She has also established the Magic Bullet Fund, a charity that has helped finance cancer treatment for 21 dogs.

Love Isn't Cheap

Such specialized veterinary medicine, widely available only in recent years, has helped fuel the surge in pet owner spending over the past decade. Though we know we must eventually face the inevitable, many of us will empty our bank accounts to delay it.

The price for Sandra Fleischman of Tampa was $20,000. When her two boxers got cancer just months apart, they endured dozens of trips to a vet oncologist for treatment, which included myriad medications, proddings and procedures.

Through it all, Boo and Flash — "with hearts as big as all outdoors" — embraced every day with wagging tails and slobbering affection. Boo went first; Flash, 18 months later.

"When I grieve, it's not pretty," Fleischman says. "I basically just shut down for a few weeks. I don't answer the phone, I don't communicate and I cry a whole lot. And I never forget them, never."

Now, she and her husband share their home with rescue boxers Cosmo and Shoona. For Fleischman, it's a continuous cycle. When she brings a new dog home, she feels a little bit like she's cheating on her dead pet. But the guilt eases with time.

And then it's boxer love all over again.

Reporter Michelle Bearden can be reached at (813) 259-7613 or at mbearden@tampatrib.com.

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