My dog is dying · 6:59pm Jul 25th, 2017
This is how I wound up with a dog.
I had a guest in my apartment for a while, and it wasn't so much an act of charity on my part as paying for a host of sins which I probably hadn't even committed yet. She was staying for a few days because she'd moved out of one residence a little too early, and the flight which would take her to the new one was some time away. I didn't like her very much, I truly didn't want her around because she had very little in the way of priorities, selfish and petty with no ability to truly sort things out -- and while I hardly wanted to see her on the street for the duration, I really didn't understand why she couldn't just stay in a hotel. Maybe because she was, in several ways, more than a little cheap. But part of it was probably the dog.
(Said guest was also a smoker, which I can't stand to have in my residence. I ordered her outside every time the urge hit her. She still stunk up my bathroom and, for bonus points, nearly set her dog on fire. Twice.)
It was a small dog. About ten pounds, mostly white fluff with a small clear area for brown eyes. One of those dogs you couldn't approach too fast on the street because she might just half-curl up -- but if you let her sniff you a little first, then any child in the neighborhood could pet her all day without any fear. (Which most of them wanted to do, because small white ball of absolutely non-threatening fluff.) She had supposedly been licensed as a service dog when the only service she provided was barking whenever someone approached the door. This was considered a service because you might not hear the doorbell, but you would hear the dog.
In some ways, she has very little training. She'll sit on occasion, leave a room -- briefly -- when she's told, although she might need several repeats and provide what-did-I do? looks all the way out. She issues high-fives on demand, or what she thinks is it. (At ten pounds, it's a low-five.) But if she hears someone knock, or a doorbell rings? Off to the door! Time to bark! Yes, it was just a sound produced during scene in the movie, but somewhere in Fiction-land, there's a door which needs guarding!
...I'm getting off track.
Anyway... so there was a dog in my apartment. And I didn't really talk to her or play with her, because Not My Dog. She wouldn't be staying that long. I didn't want her to stay long because that meant her human would be there. The human was, in many ways, more than bad enough. And...
When I was a kid, there were cats around. I'm more of a cat person than anything else, I think. I grew up with cats. I understand cats. I had one cat for most of my childhood, and -- I think you can guess what happened to her.
It wasn't my first loss. One died when I was too young to do anything but cry about it. (It happened while I was at a birthday party. I didn't attend many birthday parties after that.) Another... someone knocked on the door to try and sell something, left every door open between residence and outside, and -- I tell myself she's still alive. It's a stupid thing to believe and I tell it to myself anyway, long after her natural lifespan would have run out. But that one cat... she was the one who left the scar on my heart. She was the one where I had to tell the vet to kill her.
She was the last. Because after that... I told myself I couldn't go through that again. I looked at the years of love and companionship, and all I could think about was how they had ended. That I'd just committed murder, and to take in another would eventually, inevitably mean the next death. I didn't have the strength to take responsibility for another life, not when I'd have to be equally responsible for its end.
I like the majority of animals. I love most pets. But that little feline was the last, and remained so.
I didn't get close to that dog when she was visiting, because... she wasn't mine. And if she had been, then...
...no.
Eventually, the day of the flight arrived, which required six times the amount of subjective time as compared to the actual. I drove my no-longer-guest to the airport, along with all of her bags. She had a lot of bags, because she was moving. There were bags for clothing, one dedicated bag just for makeup, and of course there was a dog carrier. And I didn't just drop her off at the Departures lane because there were many bags to shift, plus despite the parking fee, I wanted to go inside for as long as it took to make sure she was gone. Her stay had been a punishing one in many ways: emotional, financial, muscle tension from resisting the urge to strangle her... Confirming it was over seemed to be the best idea. If there were any problems with the flight, I wanted to find out before I wound up having to head back to the airport.
And naturally there was a problem. She had so very many bags -- and she was one piece of luggage over the limit allowed by her ticket. To take everything with her would have meant a single additional fee.
I needed to get her on the plane. I needed to get her out of my life. I offered to mail the makeup bag to her new address. And she sat there in the airport, a few yards away from the ticket counter, stared at me in indignant, uncomprehending shock, and told me she wasn't going to travel anywhere without makeup.
She cut one bag from the list. It was easy for her to do so, because she had sorted out her priorities. For her, it was the absolutely correct order.
And then she was on the plane and I was back in my car, driving away from the airport with ten pounds of fluff on the passenger seat.
There are times when it's hard for me to keep a roof over my own head. I couldn't take a permanent resident in. I couldn't do this again...
I looked at the passenger seat. The occupant looked at me. And brown eyes which didn't truly understand anything softly gazed up with what felt like a simple statement: I have nowhere else to go.
And that's how I wound up with a dog.
I know. I've never said anything about this before.
Look: Twilight took two years to tell us she had a brother. I can take longer to mention my dog. At least I had the courtesy to drop a hint. But -- I keep a lot of things private. It's not just habit: when it comes to the Internet, it's instinct. It's protective. And...
...I didn't want a dog. I'm a cat person, and part of that is based around one simple fact: make sure there's supplies around, and you can leave a cat by herself for a couple of days. Having a dog means living your life at the end of a bungee cord which keeps snapping back. Dogs seemed to require constant maintenance. A dog meant losing a large degree of independence. A dog was -- living in my apartment, because she had nowhere else to go.
But she did require maintenance. Two walks a day, preferably three. Regardless of weather. It's well below freezing and there's a foot of snow on the ground? Doesn't matter: time to walk the dog! But at least once I picked up her feces, I'd have a handwarmer of sorts. Of course, the other hand would be busy trying to help a dog so small that a foot of snow was a tar pit the size of the world...
Turned out she had some poodle in her. So no shedding, which is good. So also grooming, which is bad. Very, very bad. Four, five times a year, search for money. It took me a while to find someone who would take payment in baked goods.
Food. Vet visits. Shots. Licensing. Coats. Raincoat... A constant financial drain. Her favorite snack was a $20 bill. Keeping her was hurting me.
But she had nowhere else to go.
Well, realistically, she might have had everywhere to go.
Within the confines of my neighborhood, I'm not liked. I don't match the dominant ethnicity. I don't share background. Every noise complaint is believed to originate with me. (I've called in exactly one. It was four in the morning and it was that or report a just-committed murder.) I suspect I'm resented more than anything else.
But my dog is loved.
I have a guaranteed way of telling whether someone is afraid of dogs: if they don't want to pet her, they're phobic. Everyone else crowds up. Children want to hold her and, if they approach her slowly, let her sniff, she'll let them. She allows herself to be petted to the point where you'd swear she was being mauled. I'm the only person she's ever growled at, and that's usually in the dead of winter when I have to take her out, she's comfortable where she is, and I get the 'I am not moving' mutter.
Everyone knows her. They call out to her. She pulls me towards the walkways of houses she wants to visit. (She has a surprising amount of pull for her size.) She's happy to see just about everyone, unless they're knocking on the door and she has to bark in order to scare them off. Apologies are offered once they're inside.
She has to be walked, fed, maintained. But she's loved, where I am not. And because she's loved... I never had any trouble lining up dogsitters. Free ones. Lots of people wanted her in their home for a day. My main problem was that my most reliable ones kept moving out of the neighborhood. The people she would stay with, when I truly had to get away for more than ten hours.
Kids who were moving away would ask me to bring her out so they could say goodbye to her.
I think she has abandonment issues: she hates it when the apartment is empty for a long time, sometimes barks complaint when I leave. She paws at my feet when I'm trying to write: pay attention to me! Sometimes I have to lock her out so I can get a chapter up, and she'll start scratching at the door.
She's very needy. She wants to be petted. She wants up on the couch. (As she got older, making the jump was no longer a sure thing.) She'll pull a cat and sit on anything I'm trying to read. She certainly wants to know what I'm eating, and then she wants half. She doesn't get it, and then she sulks...
She's under the desk as I write this. Sitting in a corner. My feet will be batted soon. I'm more or less waiting for it.
She wants to do whatever she wants, when she wants it. She has a tremendous stubborn streak, and the only thing which keeps her from being an outright dictatress is that I can just pick her up, stare directly into brown eyes, and say "You weigh ten pounds."
I eventually pinned down her bloodlines: she's a shih-tzu/poodle mix. Shih-tzus love to get in trouble and poodles are smart. Put it together and you have a dog who spends all day thinking about how she can get into trouble.
She's annoying, and I tell her so. She's the most annoying dog in the world. Forget about that show you're trying to watch: walk me! (I have missed so many season finales as to swear she plans this.) Forget about the phone call, the game, the work, everything! Me, me, me!
She's dying.
It started towards the end of winter, and I didn't think much about it for a while. With my finances, I can't rush to the vet for every little thing, and I cough in the dry air which comes from the heating vents. I often spend most of the season living on generic cough drops. So for her to be coughing... just a little cold. I would give it some time to pass on its own.
It didn't.
Then it got worse.
There were tests, and it's a frequent reality of any kind of attempt to diagnose that you'll start with the wrong ones. Then you work your way up the scale, paying more and more for the fancier stuff, and you're still doing the wrong ones. My hard-saved emergency funds reserve was tapped. Then it started to drain. Things got really bad when the word 'echocardiogram' hit the bill, but I was running out of options and as it turned out, that was the one which found it.
Turns out she has a heart valve problem. There are two kinds which she could have wound up with, and this was the one which wasn't just about instantly fatal. Hers meant fluid buildup around the heart, which meant pressure on the lungs, and there's the coughing. It was a condition which could be managed. With two to four pills per dosing session, three times a day.
Canine medication is... not cheap. I didn't have medical insurance for her and now she had a pre-existing condition. Plus there's wrestling the pills into her. She figured out every method within days. Hide it in meatloaf? Now she doesn't eat meatloaf any more. Peanut butter? She'd hide as soon as she smelled it. Pill gun? We're currently up to pill guns. And sometimes she'd spit up an hour later and I'd be terrified to dose her again when I didn't know how much had gotten into her system.
She started having regular nausea. Pedialyte to keep her hydrated, or the generic equivalent.
The cough become more or less constant, at least when she got excited. It almost became a means of emotional expression. Forget the barks: how's the coughing read today? And playing with her became terrifying. It's a heart condition, after all. She has this one toy... I've sewn that plush giant tick back together so many times, she loves it more than anything except her misery bone, which is named so because whenever she finds it, she curls up with the thing and cries for an hour. I hide the misery bone a lot. The tick? That's thrown, and she brings it back, then plays tug-of-war before I can throw it again. There's only one place in the apartment which I'm allowed to throw from and if I toss it in any other room, she retrieves it, then carries it there and waits for me. She's very set in her routine. And now I felt like playing with her too long would produce a heart attack.
Look around for different vets. Cheaper sources of medication. Can't do much there, as one was a somewhat controlled substance. Turned out they put her on Viagra. Lasik. Some of the medication seemed to trigger her menstrual cycle: I lost bedsheets to bloodstains before I got her in the shorts. Bill after bill after bill.
Keeping her alive.
A couple of weeks ago...
I had to go out. I had no choice. I have to make money, and... I didn't have much left. And I would be stuck more than a hour away from my residence for most of the day. In fact, I couldn't leave early if I wanted to: the nature of the event meant parking was hemmed in. Bumper to bumper. I couldn't leave before everyone in front of me did. Couldn't take the dog either, and I'd miss one dosing session.
My best dogsitters had moved away. I still had someone, but all she could do was drop by: she had a cat, so keeping my dog in her place was out of the question. I don't like letting people into my residence when I'm not there -- but at least my bedroom door has a separate lock. So before I left, I put all of the medication into a cup and wrote the dog's name on it. Easy, right?
I got the call at noon.
She hadn't seen the cup. (It was right on the counter where I left it. It was clearly visible. I still don't understand how she missed it.) She'd given the dog -- something else.
Human medications being put into a ten-pound dog.
Medicine which was now killing her. Something the sitter hadn't figured out until she'd come back for the walk to find her with a blue tongue, in near-convulsions on the floor.
And I was locked into place, more than an hour away, with no way to get home.
I got her to my primary vet. They didn't have anyone qualified on duty. They sent her to an emergency center. A four-digits-per-night emergency center. And all I was doing was calling back as often as I could stand it, talking to the vet, trying to get in contact with the emergency center, pacing around my locked-in car and waiting for anyone, anyone to call me back.
My phone rang. I slammed the connection open. Someone with a heavy accent tried to tell me how they represented the single best new car sale option available.
I jumped through the phone and crawled down his throat so I could tear him apart from the inside. I told him to take me off his calling list, and then I told him exactly what I would do to him if he didn't take me off the list. I expressed my opinion of his rather questionable parentage before offering to remove all chance that he would ever create a next generation. I let him know exactly what was going on, what he was keeping me from, and the price he would pay if it turned out that his call was the one which kept the important one away. I did all of this under forty seconds, and it probably should have been less than that, but I needed him to understand that if I ever saw his number again, I would personally travel to his homeland and make him die.
Close connection. Call vet. Repeat.
My dog was on the way to the emergency center. She was there. She was admitted. I was still trapped.
I did everything I could to escape. But bumper-to-bumper locked is just that. And it took me six hours to reach my dog.
The drive up...
I didn't know what I was going to say when I saw my neighbor. I didn't know if I was going to walk into the front room and go directly for her throat.
The drive up took forever. An hour and a half to reach my general area, then backed-up local streets all the way to the emergency center. I hadn't taken a call since getting in the car: I don't have a hands-free system for my phone and being pulled over for using it in traffic was a fine I couldn't afford, especially when facing a four-digit emergency bill. I was just about broke. So much had been going towards my dog. Reserve? Pretty much gone, and now at least a thousand dollars to come.
I can't do this again.
And here I was doing it again. Because a small animal had looked at me with big eyes that conveyed no message other than the one I'd assigned. It was happening again...
I got to the emergency center. No neighbor in immediate sight. The vet took me aside and explained what they'd done. They'd neutralized the drugs in her system, as best they could. Put her in an oxygen chamber. She was moving and responsive, but there was no telling how the next few hours would go. They had to keep her overnight, and... anything could happen. But if she was still alive in the morning...
Out to the front desk. Bill to be paid upfront for overnight services. Twelve hundred dollars.
I was still staring at it and trying to figure out how I was going to get through the next five seconds when my neighbor came up behind me and held out her credit card.
I managed to hold it together until I got in the car, out of the parking lot. No longer than that. And then...
...I don't cry much. Hardly ever, really. But I cried then. I cried all the way home. There were very few words in it. I said her name a few times. "Why?" figured in. I hated life and I hated the world and I hated having to do this again and I tried to remember all the times she'd come up to me because she'd sensed things were bad and pressed herself against my legs, and all I could think about was touching her head so briefly before they'd had to put her back in the oxygen chamber and it was going to be the last touch and it was all happening again because I'd been so stupid as to take custody for a life which I knew was going to end.
I'm not sure what I looked like when I got home. Pretty bad, I think. Neighbors who don't talk to me were staring with open concern. And then a little girl came up and asked if I could bring my dog out for a few minutes, so they could cuddle.
"She's sick." And that was all I could say.
I didn't eat. I didn't sleep.
I picked her up the next day and took her home. Because as it turns out, giving her the wrong medication saved her life.
She had walking pneumonia. The symptoms had been masked under the daily coughs and side effects of the usual drugs.
Diagnosed. Treated. Antibiotics...
...at home.
She has good days and bad. She's weaker on the bad ones: that incident was a strain on her. It was enough that a few days ago, there was another truly bad one, where her tongue went blue because there wasn't enough oxygen. (She'd been having stomach problems again, hadn't been keeping the doses down.) We wound up at the vet. He took her in, looked her over, took me aside, and told me every truth.
Her condition could be managed, still. But she was having another crisis, and they would all take their toll. If everything broke right, everything happened for the ideal and there wasn't a single bump in the road... maybe one year. One more year of life. No more.
But currently, she had a fifty-fifty chance of never leaving the vet's office.
And so he asked me the question.
And I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it again. Not on a coin flip.
They kept her for a few hours. She pulled through. We went home.
This time.
She's falling asleep under the desk. That's a rare thing. She wakes up very easily, always has. I think in all the time I've had her, I've seen her truly asleep all of three times. And when I see her falling asleep, I look to her sides, to see if she's still breathing.
It's been months since this started. The last two have been the worst. July, its own nightmare. I haven't been writing, because dog. My mail has been slipping, because dog. I haven't been doing much of anything, because dog. I'm pretty much broke, because dog. But I would have lost her already if it wasn't for my sponsors, and... she's under my desk.
One year. One year if everything breaks right. And I can't afford another major crisis. Eventually, something could happen, will happen, and then...
It's so strange, seeing her truly sleeping.
I try to tell myself she's had a good life. I try to remember the good times. Not all of the walks were freezing. Some of the stunts she pulled were funny in retrospect. She never did stop burying things in the couch and expecting someone else to retrieve them. She's -- a good dog.
She's dying.
I told myself I couldn't go through this again, and the universe laughed.
There is no story I can write to channel the pain. I already wrote that story. Now I just get to live it.
Her eyes are open now. She's looking up at me. I get into position and skritch her head a little. She takes a deep breath and puts her head down, between her forelegs. She's content.
And now I'm crying again.
...I don't think there are any words.
I've never had a pet myself, but this one kind of reminds me of the Westie my aunt had for many years, who my mother (this was her side of the family) would half-derisively refer to as "their kid" and "a hairy doorbell." I think she (the dog, not my mom) was eventually put down too; I don't quite remember, only that it was put off for quite a while.
So many vibes, Estee. She sounds like a good dog, and you sound like a good master for her.
I'm currently reading this with my mom's 13-year old Pomeranian lying next to me. She's half deaf and 3/4 blind. I am terrified that every time I watch her she'll either die under my care or it will be the last time I watch her. The worst part is that we got her as a newborn when I was 10 so we've ad her most of my life. She's already on the older end of her breed's life span and we aren't sure how much longer she's got.
I truly wish I had more than just words to offer you, but know that my heart goes out to you.
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
—from The Power of the Dog, by Rudyard Kipling
Much love to all in a time like this. It's hard to know what else to say.
Condolences, Estee. If there is anything you think people on the internet that care about you can do for you, just ask. I'm positive some of us will provide.
I am not a pet person - at best I tolerate my Mum's dogs. But, when I was about, what, eight or so, my baby sister died of a congenital heart defect. She spent a good chunk of the few months of her life in hospital, connected to heart monitors, the sound of which I always found unsettling, because I was terrified that the noise would stop. Between that and my grandparents (the last of of whom (at 90) is mercifully mostly healthy in body and mind, if housebound (we take her our for dinner every Thursday), I am well acquinted with that nasty feeling of forboding, of waiting for the other shoe to drop and how unpleasant it is to have to deal with.
I can do little but offer my sympathies and well-wished, but I freely offer both.
Should you find yourself so short of anyone to talk to (or rant at), my inbox is always open; though I would like to hope that you would not find yourself in such dire straights that a self-confessed Evil Lich is your last resort, the offer stands, regardless.
For Gods sake dont forget physical copies of photos.
Because all we have left of one dog for some absolutely horrible reason I cant remember anything about for having it in my life for six months is its name, and a single photo.
It doesnt matter how extensive your digital life is. When it all comes down to it, all that will be left, is The Book.
Do what you can to enjoy the last of her life, but try not to prolong the agony. There will be freinds waiting at the gate.
We have a fifteen year old Silky terrier (like a Yorkie, but even more chibi.)
He’s mostly blind, pretty much deaf, has major arthritis in both rear legs, can no longer go up stairs, frenquently has indigestion, and those are the positive aspects of his health. He’s all of 5 lbs of grumpy, ornery, pig-headed stubbornness. But he enjoys life despite all that, even manages to show some tenderness around the crusty edges, and we love him dearly for it.
He doesn’t have long to live either. We don’t expect to make it to winter. We’ll miss him when he’s gone, and enjoy his company while we have it, halitosis and all.
Estee:
At this point, you want to keep the animal alive at any cost.
However, you should make a valuation. Not on money, because you have already said that you will bleed yourself if you need to. Instead, make it around the little furball's quality of life: is the little thing suffering, or is it still enjoying life? That's to whether you opt for continuing treatment, or for the lethal injection.
Sorry.
Oh, Estee.
The greatest shame is that our pets don't live as long as we do. I'm glad you stuck your neck out to love a poor little thing who didn't do anything to deserve abandonment, and wish it wasn't so damn hard to see them fade and falter.
Everyone here has probably hurt. Some of us have been hurt seriously. I won't try to play sadness Olympics with you; that's utterly pointless. But the thing with any and all pain is, from the kid who stubbed their toe up to the young adult who wants to die, you move on. You can either grow from it in healthy ways or in traumatic ways. One of these is objectively worse, but it still gets easier as time passes. A lot of people suffer with you, Estee. There's strength in togetherness.
Damn. Sorry, Estee.
We're here for you.
I've never had a pet, so I can't say I know what you're going through. But my warmest thoughts to you anyway, for what it's worth.
You're a good person, Estee.
I'd say you were one of the best people but we all know who the best people are.
I'm so sorry.
That was heartbreaking. D: I know this feeling, albeit without the dire financial constraints.
I also know that feeling of never wanting another pet again for the reasons you list. Is that sentiment behind 500 Little Murders?
My thirteen-year old Brussels Griffon hopped up onto the couch as I read this. Well, he did after several attempts and my offering a rather loud reminder/command about doing so. His hearing's starting to go, and his jumps have been uncertain for years now.
I still remember the Yorkshire Terrier who lies buried in my childhood home's back yard, who was old by the time I was old enough to understand what he was, and who my parents never let me see after the stroke.
Suffice to say, you have my sincerest condolences.
I've been worried about you. I haven't tried PMing you because I get that you are a person that likes their privacy. I can understand and respect that. I figured that if you wanted us to know, you'd blog when you were ready. So, when I saw this blog title...
I'm sorry.
Our family had pets pretty much the whole time I was growing up. Dogs and cats mostly, a few birds, and a rabbit (I was too young to remember). I consider myself a cat person. I think I understand cats, as much as any human can. Dogs, I can't quite get my head around...
I don't currently have a pet. Part of the reason is financial, part is practical, but the rest... I think I'll keep private.
I'm sorry. I don't know that there is anything I could say. Everything I think of just sounds like a meaningless platitude. More likely to hurt than help.
I'm sorry.
Why do we love them so much? They cost as much as raising a child in some cases. They pee, poop, and barf in the most unfortunate places and in the most inconvenient times. And you only get maybe 10 years with them on average if all the stars align. So inconvenient... I miss every single one.
I don't know what I can really say, but I"m sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I've been there, and I know how much it hurts and that there aren't any words that can make you feel better. But, regardless, all my love to your and your bundle of fur. I hope you get your year, and more besides.
I had to put down my cat because he could no longer eat. He would sit there and look at the food and look at me conveying help me eat it.
I got a cat when I was eight, who purred and loved me through middle and high school. A bossy tortoiseshell who owned the neighborhood and terrorized dogs in the park. She got cancer, in her jaw. Slowly making it more and more painful for her to eat. Slowly losing weight. Still she loved to snuggle up to me and purr and groom my hair and beard. She was at about two thirds of her starting weight when I finally had to call it--six pounds. The vet showed me what I hadn't been able to see, how her jaw was deformed at the back of her mouth, getting worse and worse. We had gone back and forth for months before that moment, tenterhooks slowly sinking into my heart.
She was 17. That was 2012. You published that story about nine months later, and it hurt. It hurt so good.
There were two other cats that we lost in there too--one of Mom's, one who'd adopted me after I moved out, who went from fine to dead in about 72 hours. After that, I was... just as happy to not look for any more cats.
Last Halloween it was Dad we had to call it for. Ladder, fall, concrete, head. Just a couple weeks of suspense, that time.
A few months later, Mom got her diagnosis--ovarian cancer, flip a coin on being here in five years. Lots of suspense, this time. It's surprised me how soon it's become normal to see her without hair. We get used to things fast.
And in all that, a cat found me again. Stray, black, huge, needy, and with a huge burst abscess on his face. Before the abscess, he would abandon food to get petted, even though he was losing weight pretty fast. After it burst, he still tried to rub his face on your hand affectionately, which was absolutely disgusting.
The vet thought we were saints for taking him in and getting him sewn up. What else are you supposed to do? He had nowhere else to go.
He likes to sit between me and my keyboard. He's longer than the keyboard is wide. He's a giant nuisance. He grooms me when I skritch the right spot, and he appears like magic when I wake up in the morning, meowing and looking for attention.
Just like the last two.
Hugs, Estee, if you're into that. Pet the dog for me.
I'm sorry, Estee. I've had several pets, but most of those were fish, gerbils, or lizards that I'd caught in our yard. However, my family did have a dog for a good part of my childhood, and I was the one primarily responsible for his care. As he got older, he lost his hearing, his energy, his sight, and he had to be taken out more and more frequently, even at night. One day after I'd gotten up at night to take him for one of these walks, my mom just came up to me and told me that we would have to put him down that afternoon, because she didn't think it was safe for me to go out at night.
We had a lot of little kids in the house, which meant lots of little toys which he would try to chew if we left him inside. That combined with his bad hip since shortly after we got him which didn't stop him from attempting to jump on the couch. Most days we just put him out in the backyard for the day, took him for walks if there was a chance of rain, and at night put him in a cage in the laundry room (he tended to chew on the door frame otherwise). Despite all these excuses, I still thought (and to an extent, still think) that I hadn't been as good of a caretaker as I should have been. So I spent as much of the day as possible with him, trying to make up for the lost time that I knew even then wouldn't be enough. When the vet was finally ready, I didn't even want to be in the same room with him, because I felt like I'd be betraying him even more by standing by and being unable to save him.
One of the things that bothered me was that I don't believe dogs have souls (although I could be mistaken, and almost wish that I was), so I was particularly upset. One thing that I've found helps me though is remembering Matthew 6:26 . . .
This and other verses make it clear that, whether they have souls or not, they are still cared for. My dog was cared for through our family, when we rescued him from a shelter.
I think the Lord used you to help your dog.
If your unwanted houseguest had brought the dog along with her, she likely would have just abandoned her later, where there might not have been someone to take her in. All your neighbors may have liked your dog, but they only had to deal with the fun parts. If you had sold or given her to one of them, they might have given up once things got hard. You didn't. You stuck with her even when she annoyed you or was costing you. In the end, that commitment, not the feeling of enjoyment, is real love.
I'll be praying for the both of you. I also would recommend you talk with any family or friends you trust about this. No one should have to go through this alone.
God, please help this woman.
Look, I ca't think of anything to say, because I'm not sure how much good words do like this.
I think very highly of you, and I pray that this will go as well as it can.
So, for a good chunk of my childhood I lived in a home with an adult who would absolutely under no circumstances allow us to have a pet. Ever. Absolutely hated the thought of having any sort of animal around. Until one day, seemingly out of the blue, I found myself appointed the caretaker of a shiny new kitten, fresh from the pet store.
The cause of that sudden about face is irrelevant; the important thing is that I had my first pet. She offered me limitless love and affection when I needed it, and in return I spoiled her rotten. For many years she pretty much got whatever she wanted, but then the day came when it just wasn't possible to give her what she needed. By then I was an adult, and she was my cat, so it fell to me to take her to the vet and say goodbye.
It was hard enough that, as seems to be a common refrain, I was never going to go through that again.
Time passed until one day I found myself in the company of some people who had a kitten they were trying to pass off to someone else. Or if they couldn't, *get rid of*, so I found myself with another cat. It was obvious almost immediately that he was sick - that level of weak and lethargic was outside of normal bounds even for a kitten. According to the vet, while he wasn't suffering, without treatment it wasn't going to be more than a week before his body shut down and one day he'd go to sleep and just... not wake up again. With treatment, maybe he'd get a few months instead. So I broke out the credit card and we had about half a year before I had to make a second incredibly hard trip to the vet.
Never, ever again.
About a year later I wound up accompanying some friends to an animal shelter, where they were looking to pick up a new cat for themselves. I'm pretty sure they dragged me along in order to convince me to do likewise, but I was not going to be swayed. I sat in a corner as morosely as I could manage while they went to bother the gaggle of kittens, when a particular tabby decided that my lap looked like a good place to take a nap. I tolerated it because those tactics weren't going to work anyway, of course. Eventually my friends had picked their new cat and it was time to leave, so I picked the tabby up, carefully put her on the chair I'd been sitting in and made straight for the door without even a glance backward.
Then she jumped me.
Crawled directly up my back and tried to hitch a ride out on my shoulder. And what can I say? I'm weak.
So I went through all the shelter's paperwork and within a day of getting her home I noticed the coughing. Because of course there was coughing. That sounded suspiciously like failing lungs, rather than the kind of coughs you might expect from a cat. The universe may be cruel, but at least it's consistent, so I took her to the vet with foreknowledge of what to expect and... curable. Probably some permanent lung damage, but caught in time.
But in an overcrowded shelter, would the staff have even noticed? On the budgets they operate on, could they have even done anything if they had? If I'd stuck to my guns and not let her con her way into coming home with me...
Well, I say all that because I hope it makes this feel a little less banal than it might on its own:
A dog with a chronic health condition? An owner who'd willingly abandon her at an airport?
There's no question that your little fluffball would never have gotten as far as she has without you, and more importantly I'm absolutely certain she's been much happier along the way, too. Thank you for allowing her to con her way into your life.
Give her some extra skritches from all of us, please?
I know those feels. I had to put my dog down just over a year ago now, I still look to see if he's in my way when I'm carrying something or expect a barrage of barking when someone comes to the door. He was older, but I'd only had him for a few of those years, and when he got sick, it was six months of increasingly worse symptoms with increasingly more confused diagnoses. Eventually, it got to the point where he was sneezing up so much blood that he barely moved at all, and he couldn't go up and down stairs, so he basically had to spend all of his time in the basement so he would be able to go outside with the least amount of effort.
It sucked to lose him, and though I idly entertain the thought of another companion, it's not a choice you can or should make lightly. At the very least his ashes are held in a very beautiful box. It means nothing to him, but a fair amount to me, and everyday brings a little more catharsis.
My heart goes out to you Estee. May you and your dog enjoy each other's company as best as you can in the remaining time.
I work at a vet office and I sadly see this sort of situation all too often.
The best that I can offer you is this advice:
There is NO wrong decision in these matters, you will make the decisions that you can live with and you will make hard decisions because you love the one you're making it for. There always comes the point where the question needs to change from "Can we do anything?" to "Should we do anything?" and only you will know when that time is.
Truly, all of my love and compassion goes out to you during this heart wrenching time.
Pets. They're so much trouble. They poop over everything, make a mess everywhere, require constant attention, and the money. So much money.
And when they get sick or old and you realize their time is growing short, you'd gladly endure all of that for as long as it takes if it means you can hold them just a bit longer.
That sucks. I had a cat and we went through it. I loved her but I can't get another cat because I don't want to go through the grief again. I know exactly how you feel.
I still sometimes think I hear her claws tapping across the floor and expecting her to pop into my room.
I'm sorry. I wish I could help in any way besides just offering condolences. If you need it or want to, my inbox is also open.
My cats are both quite old by now. They're still healthy but sometimes I remember just how old they are and it makes me nervous. Whenever anything happens with that I know I'm not gonna take it well.
Condolences. I had to put down both of my cats 4.5 years ago. They got sick within a month of each other, and one I'd known since I was 10 or 11.
She was the one I'd been trying to nurse for weeks and after they put in a feeding tube and it wasn't taking - I could see the misery - I made the call for her. It...sucked. Sucked is an inadequate word, really.
And it hurt. So much. But a few months later I had kittens at home. Now it's over 4 years later. One is asleep on my bed as I write this. The other is about 6 feet away on the floor. And I know someday the day will come again, but...
But it's not today, and I hope your pupper beats the odds into oblivion.
Your story Five Hundred Little Murders really hit home for me. I got my first experiences with the final kindness working for the Humane Society. Using a deliberately tainted (so humans wouldn't steal it to get high) barbiturate injection called "Lethal Blue". No owner while I was there ever chose to stay those last minutes. I tried to offer them comfort while they passed, but the look on their faces was always one of pure confusion.
Years later I started an out of home exotic animal rescue with my spouse. We would give referrals to dog and cat rescues (due to our space constraints) but everything else was welcome, from Rats and Hamsters, to Macaws and African Grays. Rabbits, Hedgehogs, Degus and Ferrets. And reptiles. From a 3 inch Armadillo lizard, to a 5ft Black throat Monitor Lizard. We had hatchling Corn Snakes smaller than a pencil, to a 18ft Reticulated Python.
We took everyone in, made sure they were healthy, got them used to being handled by people (one of the number one reasons for them comming to us was 'it is mean', translate as 'I only ever put food in its cage, and the one time I tried to pick it up, it got scared for some inexplicable reason'. Over 3/4 of the exotics that came to us had never even been given a name.), and once the pet was ready, we searched for educated forever homes for them to go to. But sometimes the reason they came to us was that they were sick, usually with a lie about it, and giving them to us ment that, well, that they didn't have to see them die. Sometimes they passed peacefully, sometimes it was my job to provide the final kindness. And it was always my job. Every one had a name, even if they didn't when they arrived, they did when they left.
I learned very quickly that a quarantine period was an absolute necessity. One snake came to us sickly, and we didn't discover that the cause was mites (think ticks, but hidden underneath scales, and a simple bath won't get rid of them) before they had spread to other snakes, not all of whom wanted to cooperate with health inspections. It took a lot of wor, research, and money, but they did (eventually) get eradicated with no lasting damage to the poor snakes.
But the one who's memory will stay with me the strongest is Anita. The main way we paid for all our operating costs, besides my working regular job, ways by breeding rats. One bloodline was bred for friendly cuddly pets, another line was bred for large litters without focus on personalitys. (Years later a scientific study proved my own experience that agression, and lack thereof, was hereditary in rats) The later bloodline was sold as food for carnivores, sometimes for live feedings of snakes (a technique we discourage not only for the rat's sake, but teeth and claws can seriously hurt the snake too), but mainly freshly euthanized via a humane gas chamber, which was quick and painless. I worked hard to develop the technique, I didn't like doing it, but carnivores need to eat. It started just as a way to keep our costs down, but forget rabbits, rats breed fast! 27 day gestation, and able to get pregnant as young as 5 weeks old, though for health reasons I kept the does away from the bucks for much longer.
Anyway, one of our regular buyers came to us, he bred Ball Pythons and someone had put an ad on Craigslist for an albino Ball Python for sale. They said they had found it in the desert of all places (Just outside of Las Vegas), and wanted $150 for it. He gets there and they have it in the back of their pick-up truck, uncovered in the full desert sun. And it is a 6ft Burmese Python, not a Ball whitch rarely reach 5ft. He ends up buying the snake, just to keep it away from the guys who had it, and brought her to us. Because of the circumstances, we ended up trading him credit for $300 worth of feeders for his Ball Pythons, and took her in. At 6ft, she was only about 2-3 years old. 3 years later, she had exceeded 11ft. Beautiful buttercream and eggshell white patterning, and she became my baby.
Then one day she started showing signs. Snakes, like birds, are subtle in the ways they let you know that they are sick. In Anita's case she was constantly raising as much of her body as she could, straight up to stare at the heat lamp. What she was doing was trying to drain the fluid away from her single lung (yes, some snakes have two lungs, but the second is so atrophied to be basically useless) due to a deadly, if untreated, upper respiratory infection. Fortunately we had a good friendship with a great exotic veterinarian, and he provided us with the antibiotics she needed. All I had to do was give them to her. By injection. 4 injections a day. Into an 11ft alpha predator. Which could lift about 400 pounds.
No problem. First she recieved therapeutic warm showers, with me giving percussive massage across her lungs. The humidity from the shower, and me playing the bongos on her back loosened up the gunk in her lung, and after she had been relaxing this way for about half an hour, I gave her the injections under her scales. Though they hurt, when do shots not hurt, she never complained. Never hissed at me, never acted defensive, and certainly never tried to bite. (While I have many scars from mammals, I never got one from a reptile, not even that ill tempered annaconda we boarded for a while)
And she got better. About a month and a half of this treatment of meds and daily sauna massage therapy, and the infection was beaten away. We bonded so much durring this time, and while 40+ pounds of snake is a quite a bit to cuddle with, she did give great shoulder rubs. She also became one of our ambassadors, we were occasionally asked to do 'edu-tainment' at parties of people who knew us, and she became one of the most requested. Since she was constantly being handled, she had no fear of people, not even a gaggle of girl scouts rushing over to be the first to pet her could faze her.
Then the economy tanked, I lost my job, we lost our house, and the only place we could stay was inside city limits. Which had just passed a law banning all snakes over 8ft. So she couldn't come with us by law, I had no choices available to me, and I went from a rescuer . . . to being an abandoner. I found her a home with a family who had several reptiles already. I did everything I could to make sure that they were completely informed about her care, needs, and medical history. Gave them several ways of contacting us (and the vet that we recommended) if there were any questions, got her set up in their home, and after one last jaw rub, walked away. They never called us, and when I tried calling them, just to see if I might be able to visit her, the number had been changed. All I can do is hope she is healthy and loved. After all, she was only 6 or 7 years old when I left her, if she is well cared for, she could live for over 35 more.
I just hope she is happy. I will never forget all the little ones who I could not save, but I will also never forget the big girl that I was able to nurse back to health.
Estee, and everyone else, enjoy the time you have with your loved ones, whether they have fur, scales, feathers, or other. And once the time for parting eventually comes, bid them a fond farewell, always keep the joy they brought you strong in you heart. For they are surely doing the same, wherever they roam, fly . . . or even slither.
Life is precious because it ends.
There's nothing I can say that will help your burden. Nothing that will ease the pain. But remember the love, the life, the memories. Remember that it mattered. And in those last moments she'll at least know she was loved, and you loved her.
So sorry to hear this. If you were anyone else, I would tell you to read 500 Little Murders to show you someone else gets it.
Just lost one of my dogs.
Big Black Lab/Golden Retriever mix, a ~80lb dog who was scared of her own shadow. Got her and her sister after my first dog, a Golden, died. Was supposed to be only for a year when her owner went to China for a job. Ended up being almost a decade. Loved attempting to heard waterfowl with her sister.
The waterfowl were less then appreciative of their efforts.
Cancer. She stopped eating. Started staying close to me all the time. Had to put her down.
She stopped eating entirely - for a couple of weeks she was eating better then me - then she spent her time staying at my feet.
They let you know when its time.
With multiple dogs they have you bring their packmates in when they put them too sleep, otherwise the survivor will go out looking for them. The healthy one, the Alpha, who always jumped to her sisters defense and made sure she was first out the door, was shaking. She knew what was going on.
Saddest sound was a single dog greeting me when I got back from home after work. Years and years of two sets of paws against hardwood, then only one. She was exuberant that I returned, scared that she was all alone in a house for the first time in years. But without the overlapping sound of eight paws there was a void her extra exuberance could not fill. She doesn't like it when I leave anymore, even waits outside of the bathroom to make sure I am still there. Her eyes have changed too, no longer the Alpha leading her scared sister forward, now wanting to make sure her humans are not going to leave her too. Still I can not image not having her in my life, that constant pull to actually getting outside and the constant pull to just go explore that same route we have walked for years. Her now gray mussel shoving my book aside as she seeks reassurance that I am there and I care.
Losing dogs sucks. Not having dogs sucks even more.
They are loyal.
They see you as part of their pack, and we cant help but see them as part of ours.
I lost my childhood dog this year, a corgi cocker spaniel mix. Cancer, undiagnosed and years untreated left him bleeding from the face for weeks before my parents thought to take him to the vet. Only for the that Last Visit.
They called me very last second. I got one day and one night to sit with him. He bloodied my jeans, just resting his head there. I don't regret a single moment of being there with him. I owed him as much for not visiting often after I moved. He was 17.
They lost the other old dog last year. They let her suffer, like him. I won't be forgiving them for either, but I like to think they had good lives. I've got my boys collar by my bed. I'm only slightly ashamed to say I've cried into it several times.
I never wanted another animal after that first died. I found a stray kitten, malnourished, not soon after. He's a year old now. I still slip up and call him my boy's name. His is very similar, by accident.
I still cry.
Take as long as you need, it's the worst thing you're going through. Im not gonna lie, but we're all here for you.
Thinking of you. xx
I'm so sorry, Estee. Wishing you the best.
I'm so sorry for what you're going through
I don't know what to add accept to reiterate that she's loved, and she'll always know that