Love, Guilt & Putting Dogs Down
With apologies for the change in topics, I just have to respond to a comment on my last post, and to the hundreds of comments I’ve heard over the last 20 + years, about the guilt associated with putting a dog down. It is always wrenching, heart-breaking to euthanize a beloved dog, but taking a dog’s life away for a behavioral problem can be especially hard. I can’t take away the pain, no matter what the reason for the death, but here are a few things that I have found that have helped me and some of my clients.
First, for anyone who has had to euthanize a dog, I hope it helps to know that devoted owners are often wracked with guilt, no matter why the dog died. For example, I euthanized Cool Hand Luke after a long battle with kidney failure. By the time he died (he was close to death when we helped him along), I had worked extensively with five veterinarians, including specialists at the UW Vet School. He received the best that money can buy of western medicine, homeopathic medicine and chinese medicine. I cooked him a special diet every day and monitored every thing that went into his mouth. I’d go on, but you get the idea: I moved heaven and earth for Luke, and still. . . I was wracked with guilt for a good year after his death.
Surely I had missed something? Surely there was just one more thing I could have done? One of my vets told me that Luke had an inflammation somewhere, but she couldn’t say where or what it was. I obsessed over trying to find it, and felt a crush of failure when nothing we did turned around his failing kidneys. I was consumed by the idea that IF I JUST WORK HARD ENOUGH, I could “fix” things and save Luke.
After he died, devastated by his untimely death (he was 12, his daughter is now 15 3/4), I couldn’t get it out of my mind that somehow I should have done a better job of trying to save him. In the cold light of day, this was, frankly, absurd. Luke had 5 of some of the best vets in the country and if they couldn’t save him, how in heaven’s name was I supposed to?
But as he always had, Luke left me with a gift. It took awhile, but I slowly began to notice how EVERYONE I talked to who loved their dog, like we all love ours, was guilty about something related to the dog’s death. It didn’t matter how or why they died: hundreds of owners, from prof’l trainers and behaviorists to the dog loving public, found something to feel guilty about. “I should have seen the symptoms sooner,” or “How could I have not known that the lock on the door was faulty and allowed my dog to run out the door?” or “Surely I could somehow have prevented the bite if I just hadn’t……”
Here’s what Luke taught me, along with the wise comments of a psychologist friend: It is easier to believe that we are always responsible (“if only I had done/not done this one thing….”) than it is to accept this painful truth: We are not in control of the world. Stuff happens. Bad stuff. As brilliant and responsible and hard working and control-freaky that we are, sometimes, bad stuff just happens. Good people die when they shouldn’t. Gorgeous dogs brimming with health, except for that tumor or those crappy kidneys, die long before their time. Dogs who are otherwise healthy but are a severe health risk to others end up being put down. It’s not fair, it’s not right, and it hurts like hell. But please please, if you’ve moved heaven and earth to save a dog and haven’t been able to… just remember: Stuff happens. We can’t control everything. (Difficult words to dog trainers I know. . . Aren’t we all control freaks to some extent?) You didn’t fail. You tried as hard as you could. It’s okay.
To all of us: Try folding up that guilt and pain like a pile of dirty, ripped clothing, and throwing it away. Remember: Much of what we love about dogs is that they live in the present and accept what happens. That’s our job, to accept what happens sometimes, even though it’s the hardest job of all.
Secondly, there’s one more thing I want to remind everyone who has lost a beloved dog, no matter what the reason or whether there was guilt attached or not: Neurobiologist Jaak Panskepp tells us that “social distress,” or what we’d call grieving, is registered in a primitive part of the brain that is also associated with the perception of pain. I learned about this while I was writing For the Love of a Dog, and it blew me away when I discovered it. Ah Ha, I thought; no wonder we talk about the “pain of loss” and “healing” after grieving. And don’t we respond to another’s loss as if they’d been physically hurt? We take people flowers and food when they are grieving just as we do after they have a major operation. I remember feeling physical pain when Luke died, when Tulip died, when Pippy Tay died, just as I did when my mother died. I told someone it felt like I’d had abdominal surgery. Turns out that’s exactly what my brain thought too.
And so, remember that when you lose a dog, or if you are still grieving for one you lost in the past, your body thinks you’ve been injured. It needs you to take care of yourself. It needs rest and comfort and flowers and sweet soup and gentle kisses and hugs.
As I write this, I think of my Lassie girl. Her 16th birthday party is planned for a few months from now. She’s doing amazingly well, but good grief, she’s old. Really old. It hurts to think of the future… I think tonight I’d better make some chicken soup and put it in the freezer.
Meanwhile, back at the farm: Lassie played tug with Willie this morning, oblivious as she is to calendars or human concerns about the future or the past. Willie got lots of sheep work this weekend, is a bit gimpy on his left shoulder but lordy we had fun. It’s fall in full force here: leaves turning cranberry, frost on the grass in the morning, lots of wild apples falling from the trees. Here are 2 photos from this morning, while feeding apples to some of the sheep.
Here’s Barbie impatiently waiting for me to drop apples into the feeder:
This isn’t the greatest photo in the world, but I wanted to show Martha chomping on an apple. Sheep LOVE apples, and right now Martha, Barbie and the lambs are all eating grass (from the front yard, best grass on the farm, courtesy of Will who can reliably keep them herded away from the road), a corn/oat mix, high quality alfalfa hay and lots of apples. Yum.
October 13th, 2009 at 2:41 pm
I heard a quote that I will always remember (on a rerun of Law and Order of all places.). A cop was stricken with guilt that he could not overcome after accidentally shooting and killing another undercover cop in a dark alley. He kept going over and over the incident trying to figure out what he could have done different to prevent the death of his fellow officer. After some time of endless and unproductive guilt and soul searching, his partner said, “You can do everything right, and still have a bad outcome.” Guess that’s a timeless law of the universe. We are not in control.
October 13th, 2009 at 3:21 pm
Great post that hits very close to home right now. My older girl is a 13.5 year old yellow lab with liver problems and arthritis. She was diagnosed at age 6 and has done amazingly well but the ticking of the clock grows ever louder these days. We have fought back time as best we can with her chiropractor, IMS therapist, homeopathic and a western vet but I know the day will come to help her to the rainbow bridge. Most months her supplements and treatments exceed our own grocery bills but she is still a happy girl who loves to swim at the beach and smile on our daily slow walk so that and some cuddles make it all worth it.
October 13th, 2009 at 4:02 pm
been there, done that too. I never felt guilt when putting my sick, old dog down but the young and healthy only slightly crazy and not able to be comfortable in her skin dog….yes. Or the dog that I *knew* was not going to be able to live in anything other than a very specialized home…yes. Those dogs came to me after whatever damage was already jelled and set, I know in my brain their faults were not my doing. I know in my brain I did absolutely everything I could to make them as normal as they could be, but I’ve never been able to completely rid myself of the “woulda, shoulda, coulda” feeling. I would admonish anyone else for feeling like this, but of course it’s different when it’s me.
October 13th, 2009 at 8:52 pm
Thank you so much for this post. We put down our beloved Kiwi in april due to behavior reasons, and it still hurts just as bad, as the day we draped over her body and cried. It’s hard, damn hard, daily, and the worse pain comes in waves. It does feel like a post-surgical operation though, and honestly, I’m pretty sure loosing someone so close to us, really is a surgical operation.
Much love, and many more years with beautiful Lassie.
October 13th, 2009 at 10:21 pm
Strong thoughts — and very hard to accept — that we simply can’t control everything or cover every ramification.
I do agree with Holly; I don’t usually feel guilt about putting down one of my own older dogs when the time is right. In fact, in some ways I consider providing that peaceful end at the appropriate time part of my responsibility, something I take on when I pick up the other end of that dog’s leash. For all they’ve given me, I feel I owe them that respectful ending, that clear-headedness in an emergency.
Of course, ask me how I feel when the 14-almost-15y.o. viejo sleeping at the edge of the couch needs me to step up because he’s failing beyond the point where it’s safe or healthy for him to continue…
I know that I will be sad, I may even take a day off work.
But I know that I will also be strong enough to look into his clouded eyes, and massage him and hold him as long as it takes if it comes to that.
And like Holly, where and when I feel guilt is when the dog isn’t old, or failing, but simply a dog I am unable to help or place, so I have to make a difficult decision. That hurts, and is the strongest reminder that no – you really are NOT in control of anything.
But like the obligation to my older dogs, I also have an obligation to give the otherwise healthy dogs which must be euthanized that responsible end, in loving and comforting arms. If I can’t ensure them a peaceful and healthy life, I can at least give them a comforted death.
Strong thoughts.
October 14th, 2009 at 5:17 am
Trisha, may the compassion you offer to others come back to you tenfold.
Thank you for your particularly considerate brain!
For all, may any pain of loss that resurfaces serve only as a reminder for us to embrace this day, this moment, right now, as our entire lives often change in the blink of an eye.
October 14th, 2009 at 8:12 am
In January of this year my corgi Henry, who was almost 6, got a pork bone out of the trash I should have removed from the kitchen and within 24 hours while at the vets office he bled out and died… major shock to all. The shock and pain did knock me out for 1 week I did nothing but cry. In March I got a new corgi boy named Rudy and this weekend I am getting a new corgi girl… Henry’s sister had her last litter in August and in the litter is a beautiful little girl just for me. Neither of them will relpace Henry but as Dan Dye said at the end of his book Amazing Gracie: A Dog’s Tale “I look at Claire every day and marvel at how much and how little like Gracie she is.” Each one we let into our lives will take a piece of our hearts with them and despite the pain it is worth the while to invest in their lives.
October 14th, 2009 at 8:21 am
This is an excellent topic to explore and one that is certainly familiar to almost every pet guardian. I run a dog rescue and have been in the difficult position of having to make the decision to end a dog’s life. Sometimes euthanasia is necessary for health reasons, which is hard enough to come to terms with, but the behavioral and “quality of life” cases have been particularly hard for me to reconcile. In each case I know I did all that I could do, but it remains one of the hardest things to do. Thank you for helping to put things in proper perspective.
October 14th, 2009 at 8:26 am
I have felt guilt over each dog I have lost, whether they went fast and died naturally, or whether they went slowly and I had to make the decision to end their lives. I will probably never get past it, although I try to repeat words of absolution to myself when the guilty feeling tries to come back. I have come to the conclusion that it is unavoidable when you love someone deeply, just like the feeling of having your heart ripped out that is an almost physical sense of loss.
October 14th, 2009 at 12:13 pm
Very timely topic for me. I love this blog so much, I have it on an RSS feed. I am a shy poster, but this really did hit home. I read this post just after holding my old diabetic cat who is slowly slipping away. I have had to go through lots of grieving over lots of different animals and have certainly experienced the “if only” thoughts.
I’ve become more realistic, I suppose over the years, but I still have tears as I imagine life without this sick, old, black cat. Thanks for your perspective on this day.
October 14th, 2009 at 1:16 pm
Having a dog share your life changes you forever. The lessons they teach, the unqualified love they share, that bond that is formed…it is a deep association unlike anything else. It is one of the greatest gifts. And losing them does cause a greater pain than one can imagine. But going through life, without ever sharing part of it with such a companion, would be far worse.
Last December I lost my first rescue dog, Bart, at age 16.5 years. He was my heart dog, a corgi/aussie mix, extremely smart, extremely loving, and extremely opinionated. Also a very wise creature, Bart taught me more than I ever imagined an animal could teach. He inspired me to become a corgi rescuer, work that has now continued for over a decade. You could say that Bart has saved over 500 dogs! I’ll never really get over losing him, but many of the points in this posting helped to give me a new perspective. Thank you.
Kathy
ForPaws Corgi Rescue
http://www.forpaws.org
October 14th, 2009 at 1:35 pm
Thanks, Dr. McConnell. Your compassionate words are very welcome. Our family adopted two dogs from the same litter thirteen years ago. We had to put Juno down last winter; she had hemangiosarcoma. Skippy is doing ok, but she’s definitely old and it makes me sad.
I think the thing about pets is, they rely on us for everything. There’s such an enhanced sense of responsibility because they can’t really better their own lives.
And thanks for blogging – I always am happy to see one of your posts in my feed reader.
October 14th, 2009 at 2:07 pm
As others have said, your post came at a good time. I have a co-worker who had to Euthanize her dog yesterday. I sent her this post in the hopes that it will help her. I’m sure it will. I also sent it to my mom. She said it was so valuable that she is saving it. That’s high praise from my mom.
While perhaps not directly on topic, I also found this post somewhat applicable to me – at least in “guilt” department. My Great Dane partially tore his ACL (that’s a ligament in the knee) in February this year. I went ahead with the TPLO surgery (that’s major stuff for people who don’t know. they cut the dogs lower leg bone in half,…) in March. Six months later another vet told me that Duke had a common complication from the TPLO surgery. This time, it was a torn cartilage in the same knee. He needed yet another surgery.
At the 4 week check-in, Duke was not doing well at all. They were suppose to have taken out the part that was hurting him. He should be better by then, but he was worse than ever. He hated to put his knee down at all at that point. He had just the tiniest bit of problem before the surgery and on October 1, the vet told me that Duke would be in pain for the rest of his life! and all we could do was try to manage the pain with medication and physical therapy. WHAT!?!!!!
Everything stopped for me. I’ve never experienced such pain in my life. I couldn’t talk about it for days. Everyone who knows me kept asking what was wrong within 10 seconds of seeing me. Even the waitress at a one of the places I go to said something. I couldn’t say anything. I felt like I was under a wet, suffocating blanket all the time. Every time I tried to make my forever dog better, I did something that made him worse. I’m the medical advocate. I’m the one who has to take responsibility for any decision whether it involves action or inaction. It’s a hard thing when my decision hurts the one I love. There’s definitely some guilt in there, whether “absurd” or not.
FYI: Duke’s outlook is looking better now. I don’t know what the long term prognosis will be, but the vet’s opinion at the beginning of this month may have been wrong. Duke is now doing an underwater treadmill 3 times a week in a city that is an hour’s drive from here. There goes the vacation time, gas money, etc.
The things I do for that dog!
October 14th, 2009 at 2:27 pm
My beloved Dittany left me in July. She was 15-1/2. She’s the first dog I’ve ever had that told me that it was time to let go. I probably could have kept her alive a few more months, but she clearly didn’t want that. She was tired, and ready to rest.
Thank you for your thoughtful and compassionate blog.
October 14th, 2009 at 2:35 pm
I appreciate this. We recently had to put our cat to sleep. Tumors all over his lungs and throat. He was only 4 years old.
I know he was suffering, I know I did the right thing by ending it for him. He was feral by behavior and would have to be sedated for any type of post op treatment…. but the guilt is still there. It’s only been a few weeks, but the guilt is still there.
Thank you for this.
October 14th, 2009 at 3:49 pm
To JJ: I can’t think of a better time to re-read what Jennifer wrote in an earlier comment: “You can do everything right, and still have a bad outcome.” Thanks, Jennifer, for that wisdom (even if it was from a television show!). Life just isn’t fair. All paws crossed that Duke makes a full and speedy recovery.
And to all who have commented about losing a dog or beloved animal: Group hug. Cyberly that is. Lordy it is hard to love something so much. (And worth every bit of it.)
October 14th, 2009 at 4:28 pm
JJ: Have you looked at a brace option for Duke? Try OrthoPets (disclosure: I’m a distributor in Arizona). They do amazing things for dogs with joint issues and they are just great people. Check out http://www.orthopets.com. Harley and I have our paws crossed for you and Duke.
October 14th, 2009 at 6:17 pm
Gosh, I need to make a note to self like ‘thou shalt not post comments before work’… I feel like I belittled a sensitive topic by writing too quickly earlier, I’m sorry. Great conversation, and I couldn’t help but respond.
What I meant earlier, and what has helped me deal with loss of many shapes and sizes, is the saying: This too shall pass. It’s so hard to be even-keeled and to know that bad will eventually change to good and vice versa, but if there’s one thing we can count on, it’s change. Sometimes change can be taking place and we are not aware of it, and there are in-between moments when switching from one place to the next where change is just barely recognizable. I think it starts in the little things.
For me, I could see change when I began moving from a place where I cried anytime anything reminded me of my Boston Terrier, Sass, to a place where I could start to laugh at her old habits (say repeatedly springing up from the seat of a car if the windshield wipers were on, she really got into the rhythm; we had to work on this together a long time because the image was so funny I couldn’t keep my composure for training an incompatible behavior.) Sometimes bad feelings and memories are a bridge to the good ones.
I have to try to love all the ups and downs of every moment because I just don’t know when it will be different, better, worse, or *apparently* the same.
October 14th, 2009 at 7:15 pm
My comment spawned this side trip and I am grateful for Dr. McConnell’s blog and everyone’s comments. Just the grief of losing my beautiful dog is overwhelming; however, coupled with the blame, doubt, and guilt of being the agent of a premature dispatch has been soul-crushing. Sometimes a wave rolls through and I feel bowed down so hard and fast that I imagine my chin hitting the floor in front of my feet. I will try to do just as advised and throw away that blame and guilt and just grieve without all that additional baggage. I especially like how the end of the blog moves from the sadness of the topic back to the farm and happy, alive animals…because, after all, life does go on despite the ways in which we find to torture ourselves.
October 14th, 2009 at 7:30 pm
What a really great post Trisha . . . I had to make the decision to put my first Cocker down when he wasn’t even 10 yet. He had malignant melanoma with mets, and he’d started having grand mal seizures as well as losing control of his hind legs. I loved that dog with all my heart, and I wass devastated to lose him. I questioned myself time and time again after that – but it’s been 3 years now, and I finally am at peace with my decision. When I look back at the pictures we took the day before his death, I can see the need to rest in his eyes . . . that dog gave me everything he had, heart and soul. The least I could do was return the favour when he most needed me to give him something.
You’re so right – it’s bittersweet loving these animals like we do (not just dogs). They give us so much joy, happiness and devotion that letting them go is like living torture. We agonize, shed tears, rip our hair out (figuratively), and yet, we choose to embark on the journey again. Why? Because that pure, devoted, genuine love is worth the pain. We get many more years of the good times than the pain we suffer upon their loss.
What an awesome blog post. Thanks Trisha.
October 14th, 2009 at 7:45 pm
Oh Liz, your earlier comment was lovely. Sometimes short and sweet is just perfect. I can’t imagine anyone thinking of your comment as belittling. The fact is, this really IS all we have, this moment, this breath, this
touch of the fur. Fur?… ummm, sounds good. I think there’s some right under my feet that is calling to the palm of my hand.
October 14th, 2009 at 10:23 pm
What a wonderful post, thank you.
When I was struggling with the choice I made to euthanize my dog, Dr. Myrna Milani told me “If you had no doubts at all, you waited too long.” That has always stuck with me and even brought comfort when those feelings of doubt creep in.
October 14th, 2009 at 11:06 pm
My great dog, Darwin, is only 8 1/2 months old; is a beagle which is generally a hearty breed known for their longevity, some lasting upwards of 15 to 20 years; and yet, I already am beginning to dread the day when I will have to say goodbye….
October 15th, 2009 at 12:02 am
I’m so happy there is a compassionate behaviorist out there sharing their thoughts. When I worked at a shelter, for 4 years, one of the great epiphanies I got was from a trainer who told me that “when someone has come to relinquish or euthanize a dog they have typically agonized over it for 3 months on average”. It helped with my perspective in working with the public. We need the link between species. Thank You!
October 15th, 2009 at 8:03 am
what a great post. I am glad I am not alone in the guilt. I knew that grieving was normal, and the intense pain was normal, but thought I was more or less a minority when it came to the guilt.
thanks for a great post.
October 15th, 2009 at 9:14 am
I had Alice, my first rescue dog, for 11 1/2 years. I was never sure how old she really was. After having her 10 yrs she developed CCD and after 11 yrs was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. I loved her so much, cleaning up after her when she lost her house training was inconvenient, but I loved our slow walks around the block and everyone at the dog park knew her and would lead her back to me when she ‘got lost’ while socializing (she never wanted to be left behind when I took the other dogs to the park). After a particularly difficult and restless night, my partner and I concluded (at the same time) that it was time for her final visit to the vet. I called her vet, who had no hesitations, and we stopped for an ice cream cone on the way. I was doing ok with the decision until a ‘friend’ said “how could you buy her ice cream when you knew you were taking her to be killed?” I still cry when I recall that comment, I was trying so hard to do right by my forever dog, to let her go with dignity. I try to remember that we do do the best we can at a very difficult time. Thanks for the post.
October 15th, 2009 at 9:40 am
To Kerry: May your ‘friend’ someday realize the brutality of his/her comments, and come to you for forgiveness. I write this working on forgiveness myself; my first reaction was more along the lines of “May your friend die a long, slow death by drowning in a sea of ice cream . . .”. But then, the better part of me sat on my evil twin, and suggested a better response. Just remember Kerry, that comment had nothing to do with you, your partner or your dog, it only had to do with a friend’s ignorance and lack of understanding. (And, I’ll bet I’m not the only one who wants to know: are you still friends?!)
October 15th, 2009 at 9:48 am
Ah, Kerry — well, ah — a hugging ah — to all those posting here. Giving one we love a last favorite treat, a last holding is not a deception, but a gentler passage, a respectful farewell for the love these animals have been and are to us.
Me, I’d thrill to go out after two scoops of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby.
So much love in evidence. What a compelling thread this is.
October 15th, 2009 at 10:23 am
Thank you for this “reminder”, we are not in control of the universe. Just do what we can to keep our charges happy, healthy, safe and let go when the time comes. Its the last gift we are able to give. No matter how many years our beloved pets live it is NEVER long enough.
Kerry, My beloved border collie is battling colon cancer, his special treat after each vet visit is a stop at the ice cream stand on the way home. If only ice cream could cure ignorance, CHF, cancer, kidney failure and heart ache the world would be a much better place. Hugs!
October 15th, 2009 at 11:38 am
What a wonderful post. I read it with tears streaming down my face and wanted to thank you for addressing a topic that is very personal to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
October 15th, 2009 at 12:14 pm
@ Kerry — you did the most loving thing possible. I hope, when my time comes, somebody will offer me an ice cream or a glass of champagne, so I go out with a last memory of wonderful flavor (hopefully, I’ll still have some tastebuds left)
October 15th, 2009 at 2:13 pm
To Kerry L.: I just finished reading the book “Speaking for Spot, How to Be A Medical Advocate for Your Dog” The whole last chapter is about euthanasia. I cried through the whole thing. But I read it and picked up some important ideas – including one about making your dog’s last moments in life as pleasurable as possible. She even specifically mentions as an example giving the doggie her favorite ice cream. For the life of me, I can’t understand even at an intellectual level what point your “friend” was trying to make. Either way, she/he was not just being mean, she was plain WRONG. I can’t think of a nicer thing to do for your dog.
To Kate T: I can’t think how a brace would help Duke with his particular situation, but I’ll keep the idea in mind if the physical therapy fails. Thanks for the idea.
October 15th, 2009 at 5:48 pm
I know this won’t make things easier when the time comes but, for all of us what have been following your books, you can be sure that Lassie will always live not only in your heart but also in ours who “met” her through your writing since she was a puppy. I wish all dogs would receive at least half of the dedication you put into her care!
Great post. Lots to think about.
October 15th, 2009 at 6:25 pm
To Ignacio: Such kindness from people like you will indeed make it easier; thank you so much for your thoughts. (And wish I could ask you all to Lassie’s 16th birthday party on Dec 6th! It’ll be a rip roarer!)
October 15th, 2009 at 6:37 pm
Thanks Trisha. My friend Deb in N.M., years ago once told me when her dog passed on, they she was putting him “up”. That was of such comfort, even in my agnostic way of looking at the universe. So, for a long time now, I remind myself that my animal companions are going “up”. My pets have also taught me, better than anyone, that the length of time that they are here matters less, that the quality of life they have each day, and their amazing ability to “be”, to be in the moment, all the time. If we truly listen to them, they often let us know, indeed I believe it is our duty to use euthanasia as it is meant- a gift to prevent their suffering, and in each case it is so individual and often subtle, but when we are open, and truly awake, we’ll get the message. As we all know, it’s the contract we make with these amazing creatures. How humbling, if we could all live that way too, each and every day.
Jude
October 15th, 2009 at 7:35 pm
Your post really touched my heart. I suffered with guilt for so long after my sweet dog died of leukemia at the age of eight. Knowing that guilt is part of the grieving process really helped me to heal. I will pass this post on to all I know who are grieving.
October 15th, 2009 at 8:36 pm
I can’t thank you enough for this post and I think Ignacio had a wonderful point about all of your canine family members–they live on in the books you wrote and the readers who cherish them. I read your books back-to-back and when I got to the part of Luke’s passing, I completely broke down and cried. It took me three days to get through that portion of the book (and I am not an emotional person by nature, but this stuck a cord with me). Part of this is due to your excellent writing ability [I feel (present tense) as though I know him and the kind of dog he was], that my childhood dog had recently passed away but also the fact I see (present tense) so much of my big dog in his character
The dog I had as a child was an accident by a backyard puppy “mill” and if not for the intervention of a kind neighbor she would have been killed as soon as she was born. The person who knew the mill owner convinced him to let the puppies live, but he refused to keep them longer than 4 weeks. This is how Missy found us. My grandmother worked with the kind-hearted woman who had a short time to find homes for all of the puppies and convinced my parents to take her (I was 12 at the time). My sister stayed up with her as a puppy and since my parents worked from home, she was with them during the day. My dad was not one for “inside” dogs, but she even melted his heart and wormed her way into sleeping in my room.
I eventually left for college and Missy stayed behind, having grown very attached to my Mom. As the years passed she remained fairly healthy, but as the end neared everything started to fail. She had CHF, breathing problems and finally kidney problems. My family doesn’t have a lot of money, but Mom took that little dog to the vet nearly every week, trying everything and anything to save her.
Fall came and Missy seemed to be doing better. She loved to go on weekend trips with my parents (who took her everywhere, but hadn’t been traveling because of Missy’s health) and since she seemed almost as spunky as she did as a puppy they went ahead with a planned trip. Things started off well and she was even playing at the camp site, something she hadn’t done in a number of years. A storm rolled in quicker than my parents thought it would and they were stuck at the camp grounds. Missy had always been scared of thunder, but since her health had gotten worse so had her fear. She died during the storm in my mother’s arms. When she stopped breathing my mom screamed that she couldn’t leave her and for a moment Missy gasped again almost as though my mother’s will made her come back to life (my Mom feels it was to tell her she would be okay, not to worry). She looked up at my mom one last time, my mom says she moved closer to her and then let her breath out for the final time.
I never got to say goodbye and my mother blames herself to this day, even though Missy was well into her golden years and had suffered longer than she probably should have. It has taken me nearly 30 minutes to actually type this between bouts of sobbing spasms at the memory of a lost friend, but also because my big dog is laying next to the couch with his head on my foot and one big black paw draped over his nose. So much of what you say about Luke reminds me of Sirius and I have no doubt that when the day comes that he must leave me forever, all the oxygen will definitely be removed from the room.
October 15th, 2009 at 8:36 pm
What a beautiful post, and what beautiful comments. Whenever I’ve had to euthanize a beloved pet, yes, I know the guilt feeling so well, it is so helpful to realize I’m not the only one who feels that way. And the physical PAIN of loss … and the ignorant ‘friends’ who make comments like ‘it’s only a dog’ …. I only wish we humans could have a loved one give us our last ice cream cone and hold our hand and help us to the other side when the time comes.
October 16th, 2009 at 8:25 am
Thanks to everyone who read Alice’s story and left loving comments. They have been as much a gift to me as was Alice’s life.
October 16th, 2009 at 8:48 am
In July my dog Sophie and I were driving to the beach for an early morning swim and I saw a small orange cat on the road – weaving unsteadily. I stopped to take a look and saw that he was in very bad shape. At first he walked away from me but I waited and he came back and I picked him up. He weighed just about nothing, his eyes were sunken from dehydration, his hair completely matted, and he was full of fleas. He was close to death. I brought him home and the first week he just slept – only woke up to eat and drink. He was very weary – he needed to rest deeply and find some strength. My vet thought he was about 13 – 15 years old and tests revealed hyperthyroidism and also FIV. His mouth was full of lesions – it hurt him to eat – antibiotics helped but could not reverse. It was clear he would never get well and the vet thought he would die within a year.
I did contact the SPCA but no one was looking for him. He was once someone’s cat though – he was neutered and he had an ear tattoo, now unreadable.
I named him Leonardo the Lionhearted and called him Leo. He was a darling. He radiated affection and all he wanted was to be with me. He was funny too – had a good set of lungs when food was around.
At the end of September he began to go downhill and couldn’t rally – he lost all his energy and then stopped eating and drinking. I stayed home from work to be with him. I called the vet one morning to come and put him to sleep. He died in the early afternoon before the vet got here and I’m not sorry he died on his own.
I always wished he could tell me his story. He must have been in the bush for months. Did he get lost or was he abandoned? How did he survive? Courage and hope for sure.
Yesterday I picked up his ashes and one morning soon Sophie and I will go back to the place where we found him and spread his ashes there. Somehow that feels right.
Everyone says how lucky he was that I found him but I was lucky too. It has been an intense and heartbreaking process to care for him, to love him, and to lose him but I would not have missed it for the world. He was a gift.
October 16th, 2009 at 9:22 am
Oh Trisha, a knife was stabbing me, when I read your blog! Last year, our Donar, a Bernese running hound, and I left home for our daily two-hours morning trip. He happily ran in front of me through the woods when we met another dog owner with two dogs. They played so cheerfully together. When I turned around I found Donar (only 3 1/2 yoears old) lying on the ground, there was just a loud, last breath. I tried heart massage and mouth to snout breathing, but … too late. I phoned the animal ambulance which took us home to my sick husband who nearly broke down seeing our beloved Donar lifeless lying in the ambulance car. My guilt was immense until our vet who checked Donar a few weaks earlier told me that I couldn’t have done something different. Donar was the healthiest dog he has seen, so it must have been a sudden heart death. I thought of so many people who say good by to their beloved, not knowing that it was the last time!
We have now a one year old Bruno du Jura and he is the best medicine in the world!!!
October 17th, 2009 at 10:10 am
I lost my Grace, the first dog that was really mine and my responsibility in March. She got me through college and vet school and getting married. She was the pup that I learned all the wrong ways to train, and then inspired me to learn all the right ways. She was gentle and fiesty and the best dang puppy raiser ever.
I thought I had another few years with her at least. She was so tough, I thought she couldn’t die. But i went home for lunch one day and she was not hungry. And Grace was only not hungry one time before- when she had a spontaneous lung collapse! So i knew it was serious. I got her up to the clinic and found a large bleeding splenic tumor. I kept my wits about me until i got in touch with a friend that is also a vet and handed over the information to her. Then I just cried as my husband drove us to her clinic. I had told myself before I’d never put my own dog through surgery for this problem. That even if she survived it would most likely still kill her within a few weeks or months. Grace wasn’t the type to be made weak. She wouldn’t want to be kept that way. But in the moment I couldn’t say no, they took her to surgery. But the tumor was huge, and she’d lost too much blood already, she died on the table.
I took 3 days to lay on the couch eating only pizza and crying. I felt guilty that I, the vet, didn’t find it sooner. Selfish for doing surgery on her when I knew she’d want to be let go. In retrospect I’m glad i didn’t find it sooner. I would have put her through surgery that I know, if she’d have been human, she would have refused. My profession means that I know far too well that things happen far outside our control. I can be the level headed professional in the white coat, but I know only too well how it feels on the other side. It’s been over 6 months and I will still be caught by suprise and tear up. The first chill just came and that was Grace’s favorite time of year. She was half pyr, and she loved it when the cool weather hit. I cried as I watched the other dogs run the yard.
I made sympathy cards with Grace on them to use at the clinic. The cards have a short blurb on the back explaining who she is. I feel like this way I am sharing something personal with the clients. I hope it lets them know I understand.
Do you guys like it when the vet includes a paw print or claw paw impression of your dog with your sympathy card? I do paw prints on colored card stock, but i know a lot of clinics that make clay impressions and paint them. Are these helpful momentos?
October 17th, 2009 at 1:07 pm
Fascinating comments on the neurobiology and ‘pain’ of grief….
Lots of love to Lassie…maybe she continue on with the heart and soul of a pup for a least a few years more! She certainly sounds like she’s well on her way
October 17th, 2009 at 1:13 pm
My “trial by fire” dog, the dog who taught me SO much about training was an ornery Australian shepherd. He was a challenge, he was a liability. He was a godsend. He lived because we could keep him. He hated kids (we never wanted any), he hated motorcycles, bicycles, and things that moved (we lived in the country on three acres), he hated mean people (we were very kind).
I always joked that Lucky would live forever because he was doing it to spite me. Because he was just to ornery to die. As he aged, his heart murmur became more of a threat to his life. I remember telling him “Don’t you dare make me make this decision, Lucky. Don’t you dare.” The running joke was “If you make me euthanize you, I’m gonna kill you.” It was easier to joke about it than think seriously about it.
On the last day of his life, he had a great morning, ate a full breakfast, then went to sleep. I went out all morning for errands and he awoke as I came back in. He was too arthritic to greet me now, but knew I’d always come to him. He looked up expectantly as I knelt to give him a chance to sniff my whereabouts and to rub his fur. A few sniffs later, he had a fatal heart attack.
I will never be able to thank him for (1) not making me decide and (2) waiting for me to come home to help him cross. I was with him, held him, cried into his fur as he left me.
Thanks, Old Man, thanks.
October 20th, 2009 at 9:43 pm
Thank you for this. My girl has lymphoma and was diagnosed almost 3 weeks ago. She is slowing a little and every nite she cuddles up close and sleeps with me. But I know the steroids are amost at the point of not working….and I am trying to work out in my heart and mind when will it be time. Is it today, tomorrow, next week? And how will I know…..all I know it is closer than I want!!! But it will be done when it is time, with her curled in my arms as my beautiful Rhodesian Ridgeback Karma and stay close in my heart always…
October 21st, 2009 at 2:46 pm
Thank you, thank you so much for this post. I lost several people, a pet rat, and 2 ferrets in the last year. I kind of shut down for a time. My guilt and grief culminated after I lost my heart ferret in March unexpectedly. I was beating myself up for still grieving him and the others when I came to this blog to check in as I have for the last year. It reminded me that grief is not something you can decide is over. It reminded me about all the good things I enjoyed with each of the lost. It reminded me that I hurt because loss of important things in life actually do “hurt” one physically not just emotionally.
To those still raw from a loss my heart goes out to you. To those in their final years/months/days my heart goes out to you.
To Trisha-Thank you. I know Lassie’s Party in December will be a blast for you. May she live forever.
PS-I think the idea of going out with my dog for one last Ice Cream Treat is lovely.
October 28th, 2009 at 3:11 am
oh how i can identify with all these stores of grief loss and guilt.
this year has been particularly painful.. my sweet Lucinda, maremma extraordinaire, was released from her long and valiant battle with mast cell cancer.. fittingly on the last day of summer.
Less than a month later, dear Lucky ( another maremma) was released… he was always an anxious lad and had a terrible first year of life until he came into rescue. After Lucinda passed he became increasingly anxious and unsettled.. i thought it was because lucinda was no longer there.. but it turned out it was his heart.. \xray showed it enlarged and that he was drowing in fluid. I let him go without waking him.. and still weep that the last thing i did was to put him in a pen at the vets.. he was terrified. Then in april maremma sisters Angelina and Margali both died……
My pack is diminished without them but but life has been immeasurably enriched by their presence
may all who grieve find peace and rejoice in the memories made on the journey of life
H
October 28th, 2009 at 10:44 am
I’ve been scouring the internet trying to find some guidance, direction, commiseration, and I stumbled onto here. Even though the blog and comments are primarily aimed at dog people, I noticed a few cat persons posting, too. And does it really matter whether it’s a dog or a cat, anyway? Aren’t the feelings, fears, guilt and pain the same?
My cat has terminal mammary cancer. All chemo has stopped and she has been at home to live out the rest of her life w/whatever quality and all the love and care DH and I can give her. Since we decided to keep her home, we’ve been agonizing over the same painful questions that some others here have shared: When? I’ve had other cats who have “told” me when only because they were so weakened and failing, the decision was obvious. But to take a cat – even one with large cancerous masses on her chest and belly that have already slightly ulcerated – but who still has a healthy appetite, drinks, uses her litter pan, enjoys our company, sleeps with me, loves to be petted & brushed and purrs like crazy, and does all the little things that are indigenous to her particular personality …to take that cat and end her days now because I fear losing her to congestive heart failure or tumors in her lungs impeding her breathing……..to do that NOW seems so terribly premature.
Last night DH and I made the decision to save her from any suffering and say our goodbyes while her quality of life is still just that: quality. Instead of a last-minute frantic rush to the ER hospital, we opted for a house visit from a vet who comes to the home. Sadly, her regular vet doesn’t. Even though I will slightly sedate her beforehand w/pain med and Rescue Remedy Pet®, how on God’s earth can I look into her still shining, wide, black eyes and hold her as her life slips away when maybe she’s not ready to go? Or is it me who’s not ready to let her go?
It is a hard enough decision to euthanize, and I’m sure many of us feel an overwhelmingly guilty sense of relief when that decision is made for us by our pets. I admit that I did when it was time for my two little boys, Mister and Tyler. But then there was the added post-guilt of having let it get that far w/o intervening proactively for them and end their suffering for them. Guilt. Guilt and always more guilt, no matter what you do.
But when your pet still ‘appears’ healthy, I think the decision scenario differs into something incredibly more agonizing and anxiety ridden. The horrible uncertainty of timing. Should it be now? Should I wait a few days? How do I interpret that look on her face? Is that a limp I see? I know all the typical “signs” to look for, but what if you see none of those signs? Yet. Do you wait till you do? Or intervene before they occur? There is no one to “tell” me what to do. I know that. I know I will eventually lose her anyway. I know the kindest act of love is to let her go now before that quality diminishes. But…I am so lost.
Sorry for the long post. Thank you for this website and all the comments that have been left.
Linda
October 28th, 2009 at 4:14 pm
Oh Linda, my heart goes out to you. There’s only one thing I know for sure about all this: You only have to decide one day at a time. When I’m in your situation (it hurts just thinking about it), it helped me tremendously to remind myself that all I have to do each morning is ask: “Is today the day?” If it’s not, then it’s not, and you can let it go. Then spend the day making it the best day you can for her.
And one more thing…. if you’re not ready, it’s a valid reason to wait. If it helps, the last 2 times I put dogs down (Tulip and Pippy Tay), we made the decision and then spent 4-7 days giving all of us what we needed. I took lots of time off, spent lots of time with them, did their favorite things as best we could. By the end of the designated time, I was ready, and I hadn’t been beforehand. It was still incredibly hard, (in part because I guarantee you they will get better on at least one of those days), incredibly hard, but it helped me tremendously to have that focused time to help prepare myself.
Please think of yourself too. You are the one who will be left, lying in bed at night missing her, and you’re the one who would suffer if you did something you weren’t comfortable with.
Hugs.
October 28th, 2009 at 11:27 pm
Bless you, Trisha for commenting on my way-to-long post, The pre-bereavement counselor suggested I automatic write my thoughts each day in he form of a letter to or about Sandy. Well, that counselor doesn’t know that once I’m put on “automatic” I can write till I run out of gas,.
I’ve done pretty much exactly what you’ve done: “It seems good today? Well, then let’s make the most of it. Let’s dote like hell on her!” And we do. On those bad days I still dote only it comes closer to hovering and I think that tends to make her nervous, so I back off. A bit.
As of three o’clock this afternoon we made our final decision and lucked into my old vet who used to care for our other two cats. He’s still practicing, although not nearby, But he’s close enough to come and help Sandy over . I am so relieved it won’t be a stranger and one who might not be as experienced in this as I’d like (they send interns to do a great deal of home service calls , I’ve found out). ‘
Tonight I’m sure we made the right decision and at the right time. One of her wounds has ulcerated even more and she is licking it constantly and moving less. I examined it closely. Ugly, rotten ba$tard thing ruining my poor sweet baby’s little body! It is also bleeding a bit more possibly because she’s licking it. Either way, having him come Friday afternoon can’t be soon enough now. Of course I want to hold her another day,…but not at the risk of this getting even worse and causing pain.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m at peace with the decision we made and am comfortable with who will help her along,.
Linda
October 29th, 2009 at 1:20 pm
Wonderful comments everyone. Its comforting to know that we all grieve intensely when we lose a special animal. As a County Dog Warden, I say goodbye to the Cujos who want to eat the neighbors children and cry for the ones that should have hard a better start in life, who’s owners should have known more about behavior and dogs. I cry for the ones who couldn’t be fixed up (even now looking at pictures of the Plott hound with a severe spinal cord injury who broke my heart when his immune system crashed). And I worry about all the ones that I want to get into that very special home. The grief is no less for the shelter dogs than it is for my pets at home or for even the wonderful people who have graced my life and passed on. I do think I grieve more intensely for the dogs that I feel were cheated on life. It was easier to say goodbye to my 14 year old coonhound who was retired from SAR work and therapy dog work and who had bone cancer. He never even looked up when the vet pulled in the driveway. He was ready and content and had lived a long life. My once in a lifetime cat who got hit by a car after we moved into a new house that we found out the hard way had a back door that didn’t latch, that was tough. My SAR dog who died from lymphosarcoma at age 8 I think I grieved for 5 years or more until I broke down bawling at a compassion fatigue seminar.
Shame on someone for belittling the gifts we give our pets in their last moments. I’ve taken shelter dogs for a ride in the truck to McDonalds for a last cheeseburger. I bought my SAR dog fresh bread when the bakery opened before the vet got to the house. He ate the whole loaf. I euthanized him and buried him in his working harness. My hound was buried with two rawhide chewies between his paws. He only ever got them once a year on his birthday and he never chewed them. He simply lorded over all the other dogs for 24 hours till I took them away the next day. Silly hound! He’s buried on top of the hill where he always stopped to look down on his domain and he has those two chewies with him. Interesting is that despite him being gone for more than two years now, not a blade of grass, flower or paw print graces that grave. I tried to plant flowers and they always got kicked out. I blamed squirrels even though squirrels rarely dare to step into our yard. Grass never grows there. And even visiting dogs who never knew the ruling hound don’t ever step on that grave. Odd to see them sidestep at a full run.
The rituals that give us and our beloved pets peace should be valued with utmost importance. Last week I put my obnoxious hound puppy in a kennel for ten days of doggie daycare (he had fun) just so that Matt could spend ten days alone with his girl, our 13 year old Lab who’s suffering from laryngeal paralysis. I was out of town with the other two dogs and it was the best gift I could give him…ten days to treat his girl like the princess she deserves. She loved every minute of being the center of attention and I know he’ll remember that time for always. I hate to acknowledge that her clock is ticking louder and louder with each labored breath.
November 12th, 2009 at 3:21 pm
The pain (and it is definitely a physical pain) of losing a beloved pet is made so much worse by the guilt of trying to decide when the right time is for euthanasia. And we all decide differently. In some situations, people go through massively heroic efforts to extend a pet’s life. In some, we decide to end their lives on a more positive note, believing that extended life without quality is useless.
But we all do the best we can for the pets we love.
We had our Springer, Izzee, euthanized over a year ago, at the far-too-young age of 9-1/2, as she was failing due to a form of pancreatic cancer. Despite the fact that I truly believe we made all the right decisions for her, my husband and I both still suffer bouts of guilt and anger about some of the events of her last week of life.
My heart goes out to all of us.
November 13th, 2009 at 10:22 am
Some words that were shared with me after having to make the decision to put down one of my horses rang loud and clear. “You can not affect the life and death process, but you can affect the quality of life.” This is such a simple and clear thought. It is interesting to substitute the word control for affect as well. I hope this simple message will bring some peace in your heart if you are struggling with the decisions you have had to make. It did to mine.
November 13th, 2009 at 3:22 pm
I had my 14 year old Lab/Husky Callaway put to sleep 2 months ago and although I feel a little better the pain is still overwhelming. He had been diagnosed with lymphoma and my vet had him on predisolone and antibiotics for the last 6 months of his life. I decided not to put him thru chemo because of his age and he hated going to the vet. I cooked for him every morning and night and took him in the car everywhere that I went. I tried to make him as happy and comfortable as I could. I have incredible guilty feelings that I should have gotten a second opinion, I wonder if I should have had him on predisolone for so long, did I put him to sleep too soon. These emotions are overwhelming and I don’t know how to stop them.
Thank you for listening.
January 14th, 2010 at 3:57 am
Wow—I really forgot how hard this was to put down a dog that you KNOW is in pain. My beloved Golden Retriever, Ellie, was a God-send, and endured heart surgery and cancer with me over the last 2 years. She patiently waited and watched, and comforted me. The hemangiosarcoma was a shock, at 7 yrs! She had the tumor removed, but was so advanced that they told me 2-4 months. It is has been over 2 months. I am seeing her less active, and the tumor has regrown. She it showing some signs of stress, and I know that it is time. Thank you for this article. I know that it is time to end the pain for her. Please pray for my children, they are devastated. I did get a puppy this last week to help bridge the gap, and that seems to be helping. Blessings to all of our “best friends without conditions”. I will miss her, but I know now that I owe her the gift of peace.
January 18th, 2010 at 11:17 am
I have just put my dog to sleep after we’ve spent the last 17 years together. I can’t remember him not being in my life. I feel so guilty. I feel like I murdered him. He was nearly blind and pretty deaf, he was on 9 pills in the morning for his thyroid problem and 1.5 pills at night for his arthritis. He couldnt stand up for any period anymore, he had to lie down to eat, and hadnt been able to go for a walk for two years. He was almost incontinent, and was messing in the house so I couldn’t have him in the lounge anymore. Yet even though it sounds a hell of a list he was still my Fudge one minute and gone the next. No matter how many times people say to me it was the right thing to do, I feel like it wasn’t my choice to make, and I am racked with guilt.
January 18th, 2010 at 12:15 pm
To Sarah: Oh Sarah, my heart goes out to you. It’s not fair that we have to play God. I know that nothing I can say will take away the loss, but—–it WAS your choice to make, and that’s exactly why this is so hard on you. It’s just so hard having to be the one to make this decision, but who else? You could have done nothing, and let your dog begin to suffer terribly and perhaps die a terrible death, but you did the brave, courageous thing and helped him into another world. I hope it helps to remember what I said in the blog: everyone seems to feel guilty, no matter what the circumstances, perhaps because it is easier to think that maybe, just maybe, there was something else you could have done, rather than accepting that life just happens to us sometimes, and as hard as it is, all we can do is play the hand we are dealt. Cyber hugs to you.
January 25th, 2010 at 5:34 pm
i have put my 7 year old border collie to sleep,now it has hit me like a steam train,i wish now i put lucy back in the car.ihave cried all week with guilt,that i have let her down,from 8 weeks old,
i bought lucy for my daughter,she has bit 23 people in that 7 years,why i don’tknow, mainly customers
from my pub,who put their hand there,my wife my daughter all bit,yet the dog was so loving
most of the time,she was happy one minute,then snappy the next,my daughter in the end would not trust lucy,i don’t blame her,we have done our best over the years,and now she has gone
i miss her so much,did i do the right thing or could i have done something tony
April 9th, 2010 at 6:14 pm
i am at th front door of having to put my 15 yrs an 10 an 1/2 months of age bichon tuffy to sleep .my husband dave was in th nursing home for eight years w/ muscular dystrophy an finally cancer.he passed away last may. me an tuffy made our regular daily trips to th home to visist an spend time w/him til he died . tuffy spent hours on his lap . we were there when he passed… i acttualy saw th grief in tuffys eyes after dave died. my dear dog was feeling th same loss as i was. th nurses and patients at th home all loved tuffy. he is almost tottaly blind now and can barely hear. falls alot and cries more. his dad will be there after he crosses over to be w/ him on th other side. thts a bit of confort but i will miss him so . i cry when somone else loves an loses there darling pets. i thank u for a bit of confort here. god bless u all.
April 18th, 2010 at 3:47 pm
I am so grateful for websites such as this that help immensely with the healing process. Six months ago, I made the heartwrenching decision to end Tater, my 16-year-old dog’s life. He could no longer walk and had accidents in his bed. I know that I made the right decision, as I would not want to have such a poor quality of life myself. Before Tater’s life ended, I rescued an abandoned dog left on our country road for two days sitting in the same spot waiting for her parents to come back to her. I named her Sophie because she was such a pretty girl. Sophie loved to run and run and was such a free spirit. However, part of her running included chasing cars. My husband hooked her up to her rope in the driveway and we both knew that on a couple occasions the clasp would fail when she hit the end of the driveway, breaking away and running. She was only on the rope for two minutes while I prepared breakfast for all of my cats. That all it took for her to dash off and get hit by a car and killed. We’re just devastated, feeling negligent and guilty. I know that it’ll take time to heal, but knowing that we could have prevented her death makes it all so bad. She had gotten loose in the past, but stayed on our private road. If I could only turn the clock back and not make that fatal mistake again.
July 12th, 2010 at 7:13 pm
We just put down our beloved Westie, Scruffy. She seemed to be a little less active (age 7.5) but we thought it was her age….then she abruptly stopped eating. She was found to have hepatic and renal failure. Dx unclear..supportive therapy excellent….creatinine continued to climb to 5.7. What do you do? Refer to referral hospital…she has renal failure…can they alter the course of end organ failure????
We went to see her…devastated. She was ill, ascites, those eyes said..I am sick….
She is now in dog heaven we believe….May God bless our Scruffy….she was our friend, our ever faithful companion who amazingly loved us more than we could love her…
July 23rd, 2010 at 4:46 pm
I am going through this right now. Today is Friday, but on Monday we will be putting our dear puppy (11 months) down for behavior problems. We tried everything we, our breeder, and the vet could, but we just couldn’t get his aggression under control. 99% percent of the time he was the best, most loving dog you could ever wish for. He loved to go retrieve bumpers in the yard and play with the kids in the backyard. But every once in a while, for some reason, a dark cloud would come over him. Now, after several bites we have had to make the hard choice. We know it is the right thing to do, but it still hurts sooooooooo much. I have had so many of the “did I do this right” and “I should have done this instead” thoughts. I and my whole family are simply crying till we can’t cry anymore. Thank you for the above post and all the heartfelt responses. You feel like you are the only one that has ever had to go through this…I see that I am not. We will love our Orion forever, just as I know he loved all of us too. We will place him in the backyard so we can visit him. I hope the pain ends for all of us, and we remember only the good times. We look forward to seeing him at the bridge someday. He was a good dog.
July 23rd, 2010 at 8:27 pm
On July 16/10, we had to put our lovely Shadow down. She was an 8 yr old black lab. She was going down hill really fast. On monday, she was eating and drinking, but she was vomiting and had poops. Tuesday was more of the same, but she would eat only treats. By wednesday she stopped eating all together, but drinking like no tomorrow only to throw most of it back up. I was scheduled to work thursday, but due to Shadow, I knew that she was headed in a direction that I couldn’t save her from. I took the day off to be with her. She laid down beside me and I rubbed her tummy. She was sooo content, but still not eating and vomiting water.
Friday came and the vet called us back saying to get Shadow to her office as quickly as possible. Thursday night, was when I knew something else was wrong. No cold. Shadow had blood in her urine. Never a good sign. I picked up my husband from work and we drove to vets, both thinking that she would be coming home.
The vet gave us grave news. Shadow had hemangiosarcoma (canacer of the blood vessells and arteries). A tumor that was on her spleen had ruptured and started to bleed internally. Due to lack of oxygen, Shadow’s liver started to fail. Her heartrate was up! My poor baby had basically hours to live. 3 hours after diagnoses, after many photos being taken, after hoping, it was time to say goodbye. With my husband standing behind me, I gently took her head into my hands, told her what a wonderful girl she had been for the 9 months that we had her. She was in my heart always and that soon her pain would be over and she would be free. I told her that I was sorry for the decisions that I HAD to make for her sake. I hope that she understood, still no tear shed my eye. Strength from deep within, held the tears in check. As I watched them inject her, time seemed to slow. I could see my beloved friend’s eyes droop and as the vet took Shadow’s now heavy head and laid gently in the tender grass that she earlier basked in the sun’s rays, I saw her warmth, her love one last time and than nothing. I closed her eyes and softly kissed her brow. I pat her for several minutes until the vet checked her heartbeat one last time. “She’s gone.” the vet said softly. With that the barrage of strength left my body and was replaced by waves upon waves of tears. I kissed Shadow one last time. I told her that I was sooo sorry and that I hope she could forgive me. I was crippled by sooooo many emotions all at once. Guilt, shame, horror, grief, hopelessness just to name a few. My head knew that there was no other choice for my decision to euthanise Shadow. The vet gave her merely hours left and those hours would increase in pain and discomfort. She lungs would close up on her and she would literally try to gasp for air. Is that what I wanted to her? Gone are the days were a wagging whip of her tail greeted me as I came home. No more kisses to give. She just didn’t have the energy. I had to show her my greatest act of love for her was letting her go quietly and without more pain.
A week has gone by. I miss her terribly so. I sleep with her collar wrapped around my wrist at night, just so that I know she is near. Last night, I even cuddled with her favorite ducky toy. Just to be near her. Still have those waves of pain and loss and guilt. Would I take away that decision to let her rest peacefully without a tragic death? Not if my life depended upon it. Tonight, I will still sleep with her collar around me wrist, but knowing that there are others out there that have the same intense love for their dearly departed pet, calms me. I am not alone! Not really. RIP Shadow girl! We love you! <3
July 23rd, 2010 at 8:29 pm
Oops forgot! Shadow’s ashes are home now. The promise that I made to her last friday have been fulfilled! Peace of heart!
August 30th, 2010 at 9:38 am
On September 11, 2010 we will say farewell to Duke, our 14+year old male westie. Last year in June we had to let his sister go to cancer. He has congestive heart disease and is increasingly becoming more uncomfortable, especially at night. Years ago we lost a 4 year old westie right before our eyes. Is one pain greater than another? The guilt regarding Duke is proving to be the greatest. He can still sprint across the yard if an “invader” is near; he eats well, “poops”, and continues to wag that little tail every time my cat walks by. And yet….his quality….the towels and pillows strewn all over the house and the fans going to keep him cool. Enough we decided….and again, the guilt. But thru it all and with blogs such as this, I can know in my heart, if not in my mind, that Duke will rejoin his family over the rainbow and will always be with me. I chose for him what he could not ask for; I grieve for what I will lose but cheer for all the unconditonal love he has given and for the joy he brought when our 4 year old passed so suddenly. He was that dog’s “spirit”….hopefully another spirit will appear. No matter what, thanks for offering this site….it is indeed needed!!!!
August 30th, 2010 at 10:30 am
To Linda, and her Duke: No guilt, no guilt, toss it away, truly. Yes he could still wag his tail, but you prevented him from dying a painful death, and greater love hath no person than that. Vets tell me all the time about dogs who were let go too long, who ended up suffering terribly (A good friend of mine who is a vet let one of his dogs go too long, and found her in a horrible state when he returned one day. I’ll skip the details…). I think I let Lassie go too long, wish now I had helped her on her way the night before she died. So no guilt, no guilt. Just love.
Take care of yourself. You might want to go to the “Six Words” post in January of 2010, in which I and hundreds of others wrote 6 words, a la Hemingway, in honor of our dogs. I’ll look for the ones about Duke. Lucky boy, that Duke.
September 1st, 2010 at 6:44 pm
Thank you so much for this post and the many others who have added their stories. One week ago, we had to put our 3 1/2 year old dog down because of behavior issues. We sought help from many vets and trainers to help him overcome his issues, but unfortunately after an incident involving a child we had to make the decision to put him down. He wouldn’t dare hurt anyone in our family, but with strangers (small or large) he felt the need to protect us. The guilt has been overwhelming as are the almost constant moments of missing him. I have a constant ache in my stomach of guilt and sadness. Everyone else in the family seems to be coping better than I have. I don’t think I have ever been more sad. Knowing that time will heal and that others have experienced what I am going through helps as well. Hopefully, the guilt will subside. I can only hope that our sweet Teddy is running around in Heaven while waiting for the rest of us!