Losing a pet is hard. Getting to say goodbye makes it easier.
Life

On Saying Goodbye to My Dog and Friend

Losing a pet is hard. Getting to say goodbye makes it easier.

My dog died last night.

CORRECTION: I put my dog down last night. Or, rather, I granted the veterinarian permission to put her down last night.

It all started earlier last week when I noticed she was throwing up a lot. A lot more than usual, anyway. She and my other dog have not been strangers to relieving themselves in my house since we moved here about 6 years ago, so the first few times we had to clean it up, I didn’t think much about it.

But then it continued. Frequently.

By the time I got home from work on Friday night and accidentally slammed the door into her as she lay in the laundry room, a fresh puddle of vomit next to her, I realized just how sick she had gotten in 24 hours time.

Admittedly, she may have been showing signs of extreme illness before that, but as I had to work late twice last week running parent/teacher conferences and attend my own children’s parent/teacher conferences a third night, I hadn’t really had time to notice. She had been, after all, just as energetic, loud, and young at heart as always, vomiting aside.

And then, out of nowhere, she was not herself.

She couldn’t walk. She refused to eat. She didn’t even respond to my scratching her in her favorite spot or my attempts to get her to howl and chirp — both actions that always elicited the same, loving responses. I opened the laundry room door, interrupted the chaos that surrounded my husband, and announced that we had to take her somewhere — anywhere — immediately.

She was dying. And it was painfully obvious.

My husband drove her a half hour away to the only open animal clinic within a 30 mile radius where he learned that she was in renal failure, or at least that’s what the tests indicated.

The veterinarian ordered up some x-rays to make sure the two cancerous tumors she had been diagnosed with a month prior hadn’t multiplied and invaded her body, and they hadn’t. She then ordered up the blood tests that revealed something was wrong with our dog’s kidneys. Forty-five minutes and a thousand bucks later, the doctor requested to keep her overnight in order to push fluids and administer anti-nausea medication in an attempt to eliminate the symptoms she was experiencing and bring the disastrous levels down.

What were we going to do? We couldn’t bring her home. We clearly couldn’t care for her in the way she needed to be cared for. So he acquiesced and drove home, and as a family, we lifted up a silent prayer for a miracle.

A miracle that never came.

At 4 p.m. the next day, the veterinarian called with bad news. Though one of the scary numbers they had been concerned about had gone down, another had gone up, and our poor dog still wouldn’t eat. What’s worse, she was now urinating and defecating on herself. “If it were my dog,” the veterinarian said, “I would consider euthanasia.”

We sat our young boys down and delivered the bad news. Alister, our oldest, burst into tears, for he had been so sure she would return, safe and sound. He had held onto hope. And hope hadn’t delivered.

We decided I should be the one to go to the clinic to be with our dog in her final moments. My husband had said his goodbyes the night before — goodbyes laced with hopeful pleas to get better, but goodbyes nevertheless. I hopped in the shower, attempted to make myself look the opposite of how I felt on the inside, and drove the thirty minutes down to the clinic through sudden bouts of tears.

My heart felt as though someone was trying to blow up a balloon inside it. A poisonous balloon. A balloon filled with sorrow. I was acutely aware of each passing moment. The closer I got, the more my heart would swell with dread. Every inch I drove meant my dog was a fraction of a second closer to death.

I sat alone and drove in silence. I didn’t want to associate any song on the radio with this moment in my life — the moment I would give the nod and they would, with the push of a needle, snuff out my sweet dog’s life, just like that.

At last, I pulled into the parking lot and slid the gear shift into park. And I sat there. I sat there, willing Strength to my side. Eventually, it came. I stepped out of the vehicle, straightened my posture, and marched confidently into the clinic, an air of stoicism about me.

And then the receptionist asked if she could help me.

“I’m he–.” That’s as far as I got before my face twisted and contorted and tears fell from my eyes, betraying me and revealing the agony pulsing through my veins.

“Are you here for M*****?” the receptionist kindly inquired. I nodded as I swiped a tissue from the counter and dabbed at my eyes with it. “I just need you to sign some paperwork, and then I’ll take you back to a private room where the doctor will bring M***** in for you to visit with her. Will you be staying during the procedure?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Do most people stay?”

“It’s really personal preference,” she answered.

I nodded, signed the paperwork, and followed her into the dimly lit room where, shortly after my arrival, they brought my companion to me for one last visit.

She didn’t look all that bad. I muttered aloud that I wished she looked worse. But I knew better. She couldn’t move much on her own, and while her ears perked slightly when she heard my voice, it was clear she wasn’t the same. “What happens when they give her the injection?” I asked. “You know. So I can decide if I want to be here.”

“Well, we give her anesthesia to calm her down. And then we give her more — too much — to help her pass away. The whole process takes but a few minutes. Typically, their eyes remain open and they may urinate or defecate, and sometimes, they appear to take a final breath, but it’s really just the lungs letting out the last of its air.”

I couldn’t witness that, I decided. I would say my goodbyes and leave when it was time.

The nurse handed my pup over to me, and I cradled her in my lap, kissing her ears, scratching the top of her head and running my finger down her snout, and reciting to her what my son had asked me to say. “You’re a good dog, Bunny Girl,” I whispered to her. “Alister wants me to tell you he loves you. We all love you.” I sat there with her a while longer, kissing her head, inhaling as much of her soft, furry scent as I could, and staring at the button I was supposed to press when I was ready.

I was never going to be ready.

Finally, I mustered the courage to extend my finger and push, and then I slumped down in a heap over my dog, waiting — as time beat, horribly and in sync with my heart — for the executioner.

When the doctor entered, a hot flash of panic flooded my body. “Do you want to be present?” she asked as she lowered my friend of 10 years to the ground.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean … I don’t want her to … to die in a cold … on a table … all alone,” I managed through sobs. “Can I stay and then leave if it gets to be too much?” I pleaded.

“Of course,” the doctor said. “May I proceed?”

I nodded my head and began stroking her face, taking extra care to make sure she closed her eyes when I did. I couldn’t bear to see her lifeless eyes.

One injection. Stroke. Two injections. Stroke. Three injections. Stroke.

“At what point is she completely out of it?” I asked, deciding that would be the moment I would make my swift escape.

“I think she may have already passed,” the doctor responded, picking up her stethoscope and pressing it to my dog’s chest to be sure as I continued stroking, never removing my hand from her fur. “Yes. Yes, she’s passed.”

I nodded and stroked her again as I took one last mental picture of this animal who had been with me since she was a puppy. This animal I had brought into my bed when she would whimper in the night. This animal who had cried protectively when we brought our first son home from the hospital. This animal who had moved across state lines and into three separate homes with us. This animal who would give the best kisses when you scratched her chest just so, who would answer our playful howls with those of her own, who would get so excited during play that she would skitter and chomp across the floor in a move we dubbed “the alligator.”

This animal with whom I had shared every major life milestone since graduating college.

This animal whom I loved, desperately and without question.

I nodded and stroked her again as I took one last mental picture of a life I had been lucky to know, gathered my things, and drove away into the cloud-covered darkness, my heart still swollen and heavy, but this time weighted not just with sorrow, but with a bit of peace and closure as well.