Mei was an English Bulldog. I got her when I lived in Las Vegas, Nevada in 2017. She never failed to bring a smile to my face or anyone’s face. I spent every moment I could with her. She enjoyed swimming whenever she could and hated being cold. When my family and I moved to Sioux Falls, it was easy to tell how much she hated it. The only thing Mei enjoyed about the cold was the snow. Whether it was below 30, or snowing hard, Mei would always be out running and jumping in the snow. When the snow was powdery, she would be covered in white and it would be hard to recognize her. Even though she didn’t have a thick coat of fur, it seemed as if the cold didn’t affect her. She seemed invincible. That all changed when she started showing signs of cancer.
Mei went from running in the snow, chasing rabbits and squirrels to sitting by the window barely moving, all in the span of a month. She wouldn’t eat or drink, run around or even acknowledge anyone if they were around her. When she would walk around, she was very lethargic and would limp. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Mei passed on April 20, 2023. She had pancreatic cancer and was incurable. On the day we took her in to get euthanized, it seemed as if she knew it was her time. We made sure she enjoyed her last day by taking her to the park, getting her a pup cup and we even let her try chocolate for the first time. When she was in the doctor’s office, she laid down and began to rest. The doctor injected her with a sort of sleeping serum and then injected her with the serum that would ultimately end her suffering.
I still remember how fast and hard her body became. Leaving her, lying there on the floor was incredibly sad. Seeing my little brothers’ tears made it feel as if I was getting stabbed with small shards of glass. I couldn’t cry. Not that I was trying to prevent it, but because I couldn’t. It didn’t feel as if she was gone. It felt as if she was just on a vacation. When I got home, it was extremely silent. No more hearing her claws on the floor, no more laying with her and letting her take up a majority of the bed, no more asking for “paw” or “sit,” and no more Mei. The toys she had, now motionless, seemed as if they lost their voice. There wasn’t any squeaking coming from the still, lifeless bodies. Losing a pet is heartbreaking, but instead of remembering the time that could’ve been spent, remember the time that was spent.
