My Renewed Membership to the Sorrow Society
If you are of the belief that pets are little more than possessions, that they are in no way family, and that they don’t warrant any major investment of emotion — then this post may not be for you.
But if you are a fellow pet parent then you probably understand — having a dog (or cat/turtle/parrot/etc.) almost guarantees heartache. We nurture them, grow with them, trust them, and love them. And, ideally, after years of mutual devotion, we say goodbye to them. We sign up for this.
I was unashamedly a dog mom, of the helicopter variety, and I absolutely counted Maggie among the children in the family. When they were growing up, I’d often remind her human siblings that she was by far the best behaved of them all, but they never resented her for it (heck, they might have believed that she was, too).
A couple of weeks ago, I had to make the devastating decision to have my dog put to sleep. At nearly 16, she’d lived a good, long, beagle-y life, free from chronic health conditions and only a couple of serious medical emergencies over the years. Sure, she’d slowed down a bit in her old age — her last few years were dedicated more to snacks and snoozing rather than being rambunctious — but she still had her mobility and her spunk. She was the embodiment of an ornery old lady, the kind who knew what she liked and what she didn’t, who was set in her ways, and who preferred the quiet company of her ‘pack’ on any given day.
And she was the best company. We were pals from the start and her unconditional love and affection helped me heal in ways I don’t even think I realized I needed when I first met her. She was cheeky and sly, the way most beagles are, believing she was grown up enough to make her own decisions (she never was).
She had unique relationships with each of us — to some she was a total con artist, gaining favor with a tilt of her head. Others got her sass and big sighs (the beagle equivalent of an eye-roll). I usually got both.
Almost two years earlier, she’d become incredibly sick — throwing up bile, fever, lethargy, wetting the bed. An ultrasound determined that her gallbladder had ruptured. She was dying. I was presented with a couple of options: medicine to make her comfortable until she died, probably within the next 24 hours, or emergency surgery that, at her age, she may not survive.
In a panic, I chose surgery. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. It was spontaneous and selfish and I never regretted it or doubted that it was the right decision. She thrived after surgery, demonstrating a resiliency that impressed and amused her surgeon, who noted that she could show some of the young pups who were still back in recovery a thing or two about how to bounce back after such a major procedure.
And for nearly two years after that she was fine, right up until she wasn’t. It started as a cough (which went away) and turned into mildly labored breathing. The vet suggested we bring her in for a check-up, thinking she might have an enlarged heart (which would treatable with medicine) — it wasn’t. Her lungs were filled with fluid, collapsing, and she could barely breathe.
Her doctor said that he could give her a diuretic and send her home, maybe buying her another couple of days, but cautioned that this would not heal her and she would be suffering with each forced breath. He recommended euthanasia. That afternoon.
Two years ago, I’d made a selfish decision in my own interests. This time, I made the selfless one on her behalf.
We went up to the vet and spent a few more precious moments with her, reminding her how good she was, thanking her for how happy she’d made us, and saying our goodbyes. The technician had brought a thick blanket in, so that she didn’t have to rest on the cold metal exam table. He held her still while I held her face and the doctor injected the fatal dose. In just a few seconds, she relaxed and it was over.
They left us alone until we were ready to leave. She looked like she was sleeping, so I arranged her ears to frame her face, just as I was prone to do when she was alive and trying to nap. This time, there was no big sigh as she pretended to be annoyed by my fussing about.
I couldn’t decide if it would be morbid to take a picture of her like this, so I took one, just in case it wasn’t.
It turns out that making the decision to end her life and spare her suffering — and even following through with it — was the easy part. It was everything that came after that was messy and hard.
Grief is a funny thing. No two people grieve exactly alike and even an individual never grieves the same way from one loss to the next. Over the course of my life, I’ve had the dubious distinction of losing too many friends and family members, but this is a different kind of pain.
At first my grief was raw and obvious. This good and pure part of me had been suddenly and indelicately carved out of me, leaving behind a gaping, ragged wound. The slightest provocation, the most fleeting of memories of her, would ignite a sadness that burned right through my chest. For days, I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop questioning my sanity.
I could suddenly smell her — not a typical dirty dog stench (she never had that), but the fresh, clean scent of the shampoo that would linger on her after getting groomed. Early one morning, the sound of the tags on her collar jingling woke me up and I sleepily mumbled into the darkness for her to lay down and go back to bed. When the backyard was unexpectedly invaded by large crows, I searched for some divine message in their presence. It had to be a sign of something, right?
When the pain started to dull, my grief changed tactics. Instead of the sharp emptiness, it whispered paranoid suggestions to me:
…She hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before she died, almost 24 hours beforehand… had she died hungry? Had I let her die hungry?
…Maybe they used that blanket when they put other animals to sleep. Maybe those animals were scared. Could she smell the fear on it? The death? Was she afraid?
…What if the vet mixed up her tests and she really wasn’t that sick after all? I never considered a second opinion, I just forged ahead and agreed to euthanasia. What kind of monster am I, being so quick to have her put to sleep and be rid of her?
These days my grief is mostly a combination of the sorrow and the guilt. I’m not sure what its next evolution will be, but I try to make a conscious effort not to get swept away by the crazy thoughts.
I remind myself of the good times, her fierce loyalty to her people and her goofy sense of humor. I think about how she would do anything for peanut butter, how she used to cry when she made her squeaker toys cry, how she would get so excited at mealtimes and bedtime that she’d run up and down the halls like a galloping horse. She would get herself in the most uncomfortable-looking positions to sleep and she could use her sad hound eyes to con an extra treat or a sneaky bite from the plate of everyone she ever met.
I’ve written about her and those memories several times. Sometimes I’m detached and it feels like I’m simply cataloging facts about her. Other times I ramble, letting my emotions wander all over the page until I’m spent and exhausted. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stitch the right words together to help others know her the way we did. And boy, are they missing out. She wasn’t a good girl. She was the best girl.
