This Too Shall Pass · 11:14am April 6th
Last night, my dog, a brother of 17 years, had to be put to sleep.
The day before I received a call from Mum asking me to come the next day and watch over him while the house was empty, adding that he had taken a turn for the worse since I last saw him a week prior, and when I arrived I saw what she meant. He was pacing constantly, sometimes spasming, and wouldn't eat or drink unless forced to. For the next six hours I did what I could to comfort him or take his mind off whatever was bothing him but nothing seemed to work. He had been losing coordination of his hindlegs for at least a fortnight by this point, and now whenever he stood still his hindquarters would droop, apparently too painful to keep upright.
Mum had already scheduled to meet the usual vet at 4pm and when she came home I couldn't wait until we'd get going. On the way there, however, his whining had taken on a dry, desperate tone that words can't do justice. If you've heard an animal in pain, you know the sort of call that rips into you, pleads for you to do something, anything, even when you have no real way to help or comfort; confusion, agitation and the deepest kind of hurt all rolled into one. Only at the vet did he start drinking but his constant pacing in circles remained.
When we were called in, the vet made it clear that we'd done everything we could to treat the symptoms, within our budget, and she wouldn't have brought up the final option until Mum was ready to -- which was a welcome surprise to me, because Mum had always made him sound like a burden who didn't enjoy life for the past three years. Nevertheless, we didn't have the money to properly determine what was wrong, though it almost certainly was a brain tumour or some other disease, and it was decided that tomorrow, now today, would be the day.
It feels... cold, and callous, and wretched, and all other sorry, miserable descriptors, to hear, bargain and know the exact time, place and date that someone will die. Not like an execution, because that implies he had done something wrong: his only crime was living. However I'm meant to describe it, I didn't want to know -- know how, know when, know what will happen afterwards, that they will burn the body, incinerate his bone to ash. Those eyes I loved, that fur and skin I smelled and kissed, the ears flopping as he trotted at my side, his scraggly hairs that gave him such character like an old Scottish fisherman. To picture him limp, tossed in a coffin so irreverently like some puppet or toy we have grown tired of, and then destroyed.
No wonder I broke down. I'd gone with Mum in hopes of somehow advocating on his behalf, as I'd done to stop her sounding so negative about him, but there was nothing I could say that wasn't being said. I was powerless. And then I was told to hush, to not disturb the other visitors waiting in the lobby, to not upset and unsettle the dog even more, because he was increasingly distressed because I was distressed, about something he had no idea of.
He was given a shot to help the pain and I forced myself to quiet down, then took him outside while Mum sorted out the finer details. The rest of the day I felt so numb, so directionless, because I then had this bubble somewhere inside me that I hadn't burst. Until later that same night, he was pacing more, whining more, begging for someone to help him again. The medication hadn't worked. Whatever was in his head was eating it up, leaving him wonky but fully awake, fully able to feel his own agony. There wouldn't be any sleep, neither for him, my mother, my other brother when he got home with his girlfriend, nor myself.
My one hope came true, at least: it wasn't an appointed time.
My brother rushed home and he, his girlfriend and Mum took him to a different vet, and as they left I desperately tried to catch his scent one last time, only to find it masked by the smell of Mum's make-up from hugging him so close for any kind of comfort. I collapsed as the door closed, and for twenty or thirty minutes I was a wailing, sobbing mess, crawling on the floor to his bed. Imagining what was happening was awful. Being there would've been far worse. Especially if I would've been told to calm down, for his sake or others'.
Part of me resents myself for not being strong enough to be there for him. He was in too much pain, too much of a delirium to fully understand anything, except that he wanted to get away from whatever was hurting him, but the thought of him being lucid even for a moment, at the end, and searching for me, wanting me to be there, and finding nothing, feeling abandoned... that is a terrible image. I wish I was there, but I know it's better for me that I wasn't, yet I can't help thinking that I'm selfish and deplorable for it; what was the point of our bond if I couldn't show him the ultimate respect?
I'm not sure why I'm writing this or publishing it. Maybe to say that my life is still going on even though I'm not as active as I used to be, and this emptiness I feel, the knowledge of his absence weighing on me, even though I've not been a regular part of his life for four years... it will hurt. And I'm resentful that life goes on without pause or care, as if the loss of such a handsome, funny, adorable, innocent creature means nothing to anyone or anything but those who loved him. But life doesn't care or stop. It can't. I loathe something that cannot feel, because despite it having no malice, no conscience or consciousness, it has stolen another joy from me, and another pair of eyes to experience it. Why? Because it must.
Just as I don't know for certain why I'm writing this, I also don't know how to rekindle my passion for writing and have been struggling to do so since I put myself in hospital. Losing him will delay me further. I love him, I miss him, I wish I could've helped him more.
I'm sorry to him, and you, that I couldn't be a better person.
For anyone commenting, please, I don't need to be told that I did the right thing or that he lived a good life or that it was his time. I know these things. It's bad enough that it had to happen.
I know your pain. And I know that there are no words that I can say that will make it hurt any less.
Only time can do that.
My cat fell ill and deteriorated quickly from abdominal cancer. He was 11. He went from bounding vigor to a shell of his former self in the span of a month. He had so many years left, he had so many fucking years left! and he was cut down in his prime, and taken away from me.
I understand your anger at a cruel, uncaring universe that just takes whatever it wants, and hurts the most innocent among us. You want to protect them, and you feel impotent in the face of time and illness. That anger turns inward and you start to blame yourself. If only I had done things differently. If I took him to the vet more often. If I had more money. But there really was nothing else you could do, and knowing it doesn't help.
I was an inconsolable mess for weeks. I cry at the memory of my cat's passing, even now as I write this. It's been years and I can still see him there when I close my eyes. I have his ashes in a pendant on my neck that I've worn every day since then. It reminds me to cherish the time I have with his surviving brother.
5775547
for what it's worth, I agree :C
This too shall pass, Freglz.
Shakes is right. A wound like this never goes away, not like it was never there. But in time, a wound DOES turn into a scar. And while it will pain you sometimes, and that will never leave you ... a scar doesn't bleed. You can live with a scar. You will live with it. And decent friends will help you with the twinges it gives you.
Heal well, friend, at whatever pace you need to...
Sorry Freglz
I'm so sorry. I'm not sure what to say, but good luck.