“Lay down on your back and put your hands on your belly,” says Devaya. She is preparing to do energy work on me to help me process through a devastating sadness.
She presses her thumb hard into the base of my skull and cups her other hand over my forehead. Tears streaming down my cheeks, near hyperventilating, I focus on my breath.
I breathe deep filling my stomach, ribs, chest. Hold it, then exhale stomach, ribs, chest. I repeat, feeling a calm spread throughout my body. I drift off.
I wake up and find myself in a big city like New York except everything is made out of an oily black goop like tar, but all the edges are razor sharp.
I’m stuck in place and cannot move. I don’t care. I think I want the colors to come back, but even the effort to imagine how to begin that process is too much. The thought flees.
After a long night of standing in the same dark spot and feeling numb, I see the sun cast a brown and oily first light as it creeps up in the distance. A few inches above the horizon, it sets again, giving up in the face of effort. Black raindrops fall from the black sky.
I sink deep into the earth. Cool rich brown soil packs tight against my body, holding me down. I’m not panicking, but I do have a casual desire to rise up out of the grave.
I feel an intense heat burn out of my hands, through my belly, and spread all over my body. My body pushes up through the soil, my temperature rising the higher I go, sweat escaping from every pour.
Out of the earth, I roll over to look back down and see I am floating above my dog, Mocha’s grave. Bright colors shine everywhere. I am Mocha. I am with Mocha. I am both.
Mocha was stuck in the ground, but didn’t understand what happened or why she was there. She needed me to set her free.
“Mocha you can pass on, it’s ok,” I tell her as we roll and fly around the backyard, playing.
“But I don’t want to,” she replies.
“What if you go and then come back to me in a puppy?” I ask her.
“I don’t know how,” she replies.
“Neither do I. Well, get into my heart,” I tell her.
She doesn’t fit. Out of ideas, she insists on staying, floating around Tiger’s backyard, but free to leave when she wants.
I wake up from the dream drenched in sweat and feel a sense of peace for the first time since Mocha died.
Yes, Mocha is gone.
I arrived late afternoon to Tiger’s house after moving from Uvita. Mocha was walking dramatically slower than usual and limping more, but I thought it was just a result of the cramped car ride.
When I woke up the next day, Mocha could not walk. She straightened one awkward weak leg at a time until she could hoist her body up. Then she crapped herself. She looked at me like she was mortified. She took a couple wobbly stilt-like steps towards the door and fell.
She did this all morning – trying to take herself outside, but falling and crapping herself in the bed instead.
She had a long history of hip problems, and a short history of occasional incontinence, but for the first time ever I had the idea in my head that this was it for Mocha. I laid with her all morning emotionally in disbelief of what logically needed to be done.
I offered her carrots, bacon, and bread. She didn’t want her favorite treats. She had a pleading in her eyes I had never seen before. It’s like she was telling me “it’s over.”
My friend, Tiger, walked into the room. “Erin, I don’t know how to say this, but have you thought about putting her down?” I burst out crying. I wasn’t the only one getting that vibe. My dog was suffering. I had to help her.
Tiger called the vet and two came over to assess the situation. “We can make her comfortable with drugs and keep her alive, but she is going to be bedridden, incontinent, and not happy. The most humane thing to do is to put her down.”
I laid with her as the vets hooked her little leg up to an IV. It was all happening way too fast. I worried about whether I forgot anything or if I needed to do anything. I wanted to scream STOP.
Her favorite tennis ball, stuffed squirrel, and fuzzy blanket were there. I hugged her, and stroked her saying “Good girl, good girl, good girl Mocha” keeping myself under control so she could pass in peace. I regretted not giving her more attention, I couldn’t believe this was the last time I had to show her affection.
She seemed gone. “Is she dead?” I asked the vets, feeling myself about to burst.
“Yes,” they confirmed. A long haunted wail escaped my body and I collapsed.
Tiger’s yard was very rocky and the hole we dug wasn’t deep enough. I sat there for an hour with Mocha’s lifeless body while someone else went and bought a bag of lye. I stroked her ears – they were always so soft like velvet or suede. They still were. I thought about cutting one off. I thought I was gross and crazy.
I placed her body into her grave with her favorite things: her tennis ball, stuffed squirrel, and fuzzy blanket. The vets covered her with a layer of lye, dirt, lye, dirt, until the hole was filled.
And just like that, Mocha was gone.
Goodbye Mocha. You were a good girl.

One of the stones that we dug up while excavating Mocha’s grave was the shape of a dog’s head. For the first time in years, I felt inspired to create real art again. I painted a doggie sugar skull on the rock and made Mocha a tombstone.

Mocha was 5 weeks old when I got her. A Rottweiler Pitt Bull mix rescued from a dog fighting farm, she was the runt of an unwanted litter.

Mocha was the cutest puppy! She chewed through everything, though. She was my first lesson in letting go of material possessions.

Mocha loved to play chase. She would run, I would run after her. She would laugh at me.

That time Mocha and I had the same hairstyle.

Mocha was always a good sport, just happy to be part of the fun, no matter how crazy the humans were being.

Mocha loved the beach!

Everyone wanted a photo of their baby with Mocha when she dressed like this.

Mocha taught Mali everything. Lucky me. Lucky Mali. We both miss her.
This was chapter 5 in my Leaving Costa Rica Saga. Next up I move to another beach in Costa Rica, the last stop before heading to disaster in the US. Subscribe here.
I am so sorry for your loss. Someone sent this to me when I lost my Holly, at the age of 16, a Boston Terrier that went everywhere with me. Perhaps it will offer you some comfort too.
A Dog’s Plea (An Ode to Faithful Companions)
by Beth Norman Harris
Treat me kindly, my beloved friend, for no heart in all the world is more grateful for kindness than the loving heart of me.
Do not break my spirit with a stick, for although I should lick your hand between blows, your patience and understanding will quickly teach me the things you would have me learn.
Speak to me often, for your voice is the world’s sweetest music, as you must know by the fierce wagging of my tail when your footsteps falls upon my waiting ear.
Please take me inside when it is cold and wet, for I am a domesticated animal, no longer accustomed to bitter elements. I ask no greater glory than the privilege of sitting at your feet beside the hearth. Keep my pan filled with fresh water, for I cannot tell you when I suffer thirst.
Feed me clean food that I may stay well, to romp and play and do your bidding, to walk by your side and stand ready, willing and able to protect you with my life, should your life be in danger.
And, my friend, when I am very old, and I no longer enjoy good health, hearing and sight, do not make heroic efforts to keep me going. I am not having any fun. Please see that my trusting life is taken gently. I shall leave this earth knowing with the last breath I draw that my fate was always safest in your hands.
Oh this is so sad, it made me cry all over again. Thanks for sending it. Sorry for your loss. It’s so hard losing such a faithful companion!
I am older than you and have had to put down several dogs, and I love my dogs like they are my children. I take heart in this:
“It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life, gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are.” ~Unknown
Thank you so much! That made me smile and laugh. Mocha was my first dog, I’m pretty sure she has taken the biggest chunk. My tiny dog Mali is so sweet, though, she is the perfect dog to fill it back up 🙂
i am so sorry for your loss of Mocha! I have experienced the loss of several furry friends in my life, and I know how much it hurts. It is never easy, but it is worth it for the good times they share with us. I send comforting thoughts your way, as you begin to heal from your loss. She will always have a special place in your heart.
Thank you!
Hi Erin, this sucks! I’m so sorry for your loss ?. Her grave looks beautiful, you were both so lucky to have each other. Mucha fuerza!
Thank you!
Erin, your post has been in my email for several days. I knew what you were going to write about, but I just couldn’t and didn’t want it to be so. I’ve just now finished reading your heartfelt and emotional words. You writing brought me to tears…the sobbing, weeping kind of tears. I have never had to put a pet down. I am a coward like that, not knowing how to deal with such a loss. I have two 13 year-old cats and recognize that at some point in time what you have done will also be my fate. And I imagine the dream you had is the nightmare anyone who experiences this kind of loss will have. Everyone who loves animals grieves with you. I do. But Mocha lives on in your and your readers’ memories. Thank you for sharing Mocha with us.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Karen. I’m sorry I made you cry, I’m sorry I made myself relive the horrific event by writing about it!! It had to be done to process through it and it helps to know I’m not alone, though. I hope your kitties live long healthy lives.
Erin,
I have been catching up on your story after having subscribed just a couple of days ago. I’m thinking of moving to Costa Rica with my two fur babies (Rottie/ Newfie 7years old and 13year old golden retriever) and generally people consider me the rough and tough sort of guy immune to the humanizing emotions by which people are generally plagued. Reading this post caused me to shed my first tear in ages. I’m so sorry for your loss and truly feel your anguish. You were lucky mocha and you chose each other to share her short time on earth in each other’s company.
I’ve lost dogs before to age and each one stays in my heart to this day. I spend my time with my current buddies and savor it that much more because I think of my buddies who are physically no longer with me.
Once we come to Costa Rica, you’re welcome to come pet my doggies as much as you want. ?
Thanks so much for the comment and kind words. I have found myself putting more effort into creating a better life for my young tiny dog after Mocha died. It goes by so fast. As for my story, I kind of suck at blogging. I mean they say post on a schedule…but schedule schmedule. I left it at my move back to the US, but my upcoming unpublished post will reveal that I moved back to Costa Rica. ! Thanks for reading 🙂