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Brix was clearly struggling on Saturday, but David and I had to run some errands because it was our weekend to provide flowers for church, as well as refreshments for after worship. When we returned home, we pulled into the back drive expecting Brix to come to the door to greet us just as he had for the past 14 years. When he did not, we thought he might be sleeping, but, when we walked into the dining room, just inside the backdoor, we could tell he was gone.
He apparently got excited we were home, and his heart couldn’t take it. He was gone, but his body was still warm. His vet had warned us he would get excited one day and his enlarged heart simply would give out. When we learned he was sick, we hoped that would be how he would go. Neither of us wanted to make the decision for euthanasia, though we know that often is the most compassionate choice.
Brix went out the way he lived: being excited to show us his love. It seemed somehow appropriate. I met Bill on October 18, 1980 as he was leading a training for the Atlanta Lesbian/Gay Center Helpline. We went around the room and introduced ourselves. To help us learn one another’s names, we were to add a descriptor to the front of our name that began with the same first letter. I was intrigued when this cute guy, about my age, introduced himself as "Bighearted Bill." I decided I had to know if it was true. After 35 years of marriage, I was convinced it was.
His dog Brix, who David and I have loved on since Bill’s death, died because his heart was too big and his love was too great. I woke up this morning with my eyes still swollen. I lay in bed wondering why I was grieving so much. It dawned on me; as much as I will miss Brix’s enthusiastic, and sometimes rambunctious, greetings, my grief comes mostly from now living in a world with one fewer being who loves me fiercely, relentlessly, and unconditionally. What greater gift can anyone walking on two or four legs give us?
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