A Dog’s Life
“911 what is your emergency?”
“Hi, this is not a people emergency. It’s sort of a pet emergency. I wasn’t sure who to call. I’ve locked my elderly dog, I mean we are actually putting him down tomorrow, and I accidentally locked him in the car, with my keys. Do the police help with things like this?”
“No. We don’t do that but we can put you through to the towing company that does.”
“Did I mention he’s old and we are putting him down tomorrow?”
“Yes ma’am. You did.”
I think I said we were putting him down four times in ten minutes to the various professionals to whom I was passed along—the dispatcher, the policeman, the towing company owner, and the nice guy who worked for the towing company who lawfully tried to break into my car. You might say it was on my mind. And apparently, I felt the world should know about it. Or at least understand why I was so distracted.
Thank God it was January in New England.
Days after blogging about my dog with the growing lipoma, we took Bear in for a third biopsy. Second opinion. Different vet. This time the diagnosis was definitive–an aggressive spindle cell sarcoma.
“One to three weeks,” the vet said.
One to three weeks before the fast-growing lump on his back would likely ulcerate.
“It’s time to think about what you want to do,” she advised.
Pets need us every day creating a muscle memory of which we are scantly aware. Mental notes memorized by our bodies. Don’t leave the backdoor open. Close the dishwasher before he can lick the dirty dishes. Empty the water glass into his bowl. Plan the day around walking him. Not to mention the way we tip toe around the bed in the middle of the night not wanting to step on the gently snoring dog who has moved rooms twice since we all went to sleep.
If we are so lucky, our children wean us off of their needs gradually. They learn to bathe on their own. They wake themselves up. Teens grab food when they need it. One day they learn to drive. Their daily needs of you dwindle to a veil of your former dependent relationship. The physical connection with your children fades even if the emotional or financial connection increases. We are given time to develop a new habit of care.
Not dogs.
Our #elderly pets need us more as they age. Our relationship with them is more akin to caring for an ailing parent. Some people add ramps to their homes. Special dietary needs are honored. Accidents and the inability to do the things they used to do causes embarrassment in animals just as it does humans. We handle it, so that they don’t feel ashamed. So, the absence of a pet is not just a gaping hole in your heart, it’s the loss of your job. It is in some ways, a loss of at least one of your purposes.
“The grief is real,” my friend validated.
How do you know when it’s time? After all, he had been a part of our family for nearly as many years as it takes to raise a child from birth to college – fourteen years. My sixteen-year-old daughter had no memories without him. I suppose this was all made harder by the fact that our pet’s decline coincided with our swiftly growing empty nest. This wasn’t just the end of a dog’s life. It was the end of a chapter in our family’s story.
We had a small window when our children, including the one in the Navy, and the one in college, could be home together so that we could all be in the room when he passed. This was what my family wanted.
The week that preceded it suspended all certainty. Were we doing the right thing? Every day I had evidence he was still his old self. He barked to go out. He pawed me to get my attention. He followed me around. Surely, he could live weeks, if not months, longer. This was my Houdini dog. He defied all odds. Maybe we were acting too quickly.
But there were also plenty of signs telling us that keeping him around because we weren’t ready to let go was not the best decision for him. The tumor was only a saddle horn at Christmas, by late January it was a melon. The octopus like monster was voraciously taking over his body. He had moments where his breathing was affected – a sign it metastasized into his lungs. We carried him down the stairs but he was starting to resist that – the skin on his belly painfully thinning. He started sleeping in rooms he never slept in – away from us. A dog that always walked away from his bowl when he had eaten enough, he now had a voracious appetite. He couldn’t satiate. Apparently, we were feeding the damn creature growing on his back.
We did this back and forth, second guessing our decision the entire week.
We had only ten days between diagnoses and the planned day to put him down. We needed time to mentally process this decision, but we knew we were racing the inevitable ulceration.
Five more days left.
Four more days left.
One more day left.
If anyone ever offers to read my future, I have most decidedly learned I do not want to know when my final day is coming. The knowing was excruciating.
I wanted to give him the best last day. I let him choose every fork in the path as we ventured through the woods. I didn’t care if we were there all day. I had nothing more important to do.
He took me along our old route. Only six months ago he was still running these trails as I jogged the leafy path, usually behind him. Only a few months ago, I was worried he’d drink from the running creek, not looking up long enough to see that it eddied into the fast-flowing river. His adventuresome spirit guided instinctually by his nose. He still had a keen sense of smell. And he still peed on every tree he could, though his hind leg was not as steady. He was slower, but alive with the scents and sounds the woods offered.
After that long walk, on a gorgeous sunny but crisp afternoon, I mourned knowing he would never run the path with me again. We drove home both a little tired. He from the walk. Me from my thoughts.
And then I locked him in the car.
Two hours, and two professional carjackers later, the towing company released my calm pup, who had settled into a nap while we anxiously and repeatedly attempted to Slim-Jim a 4-Runner. He had no sense that two of his last twenty-four hours were stolen by a frazzled dog mom.
On Saturday, we took him on a family walk one last time. We left from the park to the vet, perhaps afraid we’d change our minds if we dare go home.
When we arrived, my daughter wrapped him in the plaid blanket she spontaneously grabbed on the way out the door that afternoon. As his heart beat for the last time, we stared into his sleepy brown eyes, all of us resting a hand on his beautiful auburn fur that had barely grayed after all these years.
We were all connected in our grief.
We were all connected in his relief.
I’m still stepping cautiously when I get out of bed in the middle of the night. And then I remember. I’m sure my body’s memory will catch up with my mind’s someday.
Thank you family, friends, and neighbors for the flowers, the texts, the cards, and the song. Thank you #PetSmart Adoption program.
RIP Bear
October 7, 2008 – January 28, 2023
About this Blog
This blog is a space for me to pursue writing unrelated or at least less related to my academic work. I try not to post too often, and only about things I hope might be relatable or meaningful to you. If you enjoyed this post, please like it, share it, and subscribe below.
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