In the past few days, I’ve exchanged dozens of texts and phone calls and one FaceTime session with a long-time friend regarding his dog Leroy. Stephen and his partner adopted Leroy from my local shelter in September 2011—and in the 13½ years since, we’ve probably exchanged hundreds of texts and emails and phone calls about the happy, clever little dog.
Leroy was the first dog Stephen had ever owned, and was the first dog his partner had owned as an adult, and they often had questions about the joyful, willful little mixed-breed dog! As Stephen’s long-time friend and adoption facilitator (I selected Leroy, who was then an estimated 7 to 9 months old, as a good candidate for my friends following a disastrous adoption failure from another shelter), I was asked for advice regarding Leroy’s diet, training and behavior, boarding/pet sitting, and, starting in Leroy’s middle age, advice about his health issues.
Leroy had some intermittent lameness, which eventually resolved with a costly but effective spinal surgery; in the past two years, he started having urinary tract issues, which were eventually traced to cancerous tumors. Stephen and Scott spent a small fortune on chemotherapy and surgery, with the hopes of giving the little dog an estimated four to six more months to live; he made it 15 months before his kidneys failed. Despite having to wear an incontinence garment indoors in the past few months, until just a week ago, Leroy still enjoyed his meals, going for walks with his owners, rolling in the grass at the park, greeting his many friends in dog-friendly stores in his neighborhood, and living his sweet comfortable life with his owners.
But in the past few days, his health took a sudden nosedive. At the veterinary ER, he was put on IV fluids for two days in an attempt to improve suddenly off-the-charts-bad lab results indicating that his kidneys had more or less quit functioning; those values didn’t budge even with rehydration therapy. He stopped eating. Stephen and his partner made the decision to bring Leroy home and make the call to a veterinarian who would euthanize Leroy after they had one more day to spend with him.
I spoke to Stephen several times during Leroy’s last day. Stephen stayed home from work and spent every minute watching the little dog and working to keep him comfortable. He administered subcutaneous fluids, which, in combination with an anti-nausea medication, made Leroy feel good enough to eat some chicken and some baby food. But Leroy mostly slept.
Stephen had second thoughts about having a vet come to euthanize Leroy; with another day or two on IV fluids, might his kidney function improve enough to give him another couple of days or weeks? One of the vets who saw him on his last day at the emergency clinic thought it might. Stephen wanted to know what I thought.
I told him that the decision absolutely sucked, it was awful, and no one could tell him what was the right thing to do. That it’s our responsibility to do our best to make the decision that would spare our friends the most pain, without robbing them of the potential for more good days, and that it’s impossibly difficult to know if you’ve made that calculation accurately. That no matter what, we are likely to feel like we didn’t make the right decision. I shared with him that I am haunted by the idea that I had my beloved Otto euthanized too early, when perhaps he had another good day or two in him; but one of my best friends is haunted by the idea that she had her dog euthanized too late, and the dog had a painful last day and a traumatic last hour. You just have to do what you think is best for your dog.
Stephen asked me to observe Leroy, and we switched our call to a FaceTime video. I teared up when I looked at Leroy’s darling foxy little face, now with a distinguished grey muzzle. His cloudy eyes were open as he lay there; he looked exhausted, near death. But then suddenly he sat up and licked some baby food out of a jar that Stephen offered him, and then walked over to one of his other dog beds and emphatically rearranged the fleece blanket in the bed to his liking before curling up to go back to sleep. It was easy to see that he didn’t feel good, and yet he was still himself.
I told Stephen, “We should be so lucky, to have such a nice last day. He’s home, not in the hospital. You’re home, and Scott will be home soon. Leroy is failing, but given the help from all his meds, he’s not in agony—but that pain is barely being held at bay. If you ask me, it’s time—but you have to make the decision.”
Stephen and his partner kept the appointment with the housecall veterinarian; Leroy passed easily and peacefully. But my friends are still in shock at Leroy’s sudden decline and that they didn’t have more time to weigh the euthanasia decision. I am doing my best to offer them some comfort—but I also know that living with doubts about whether or not you made the right call is par for the course.
Does you ever feel like you did exactly the right thing at the exact right time? How do you cope if you feel you didn’t handle things perfectly?
I know I made the right call for my Ramses. He was diagnosed with bone cancer, had herniated discs in this back and his potassium levels were rising. It was 50/50 whether his bone would break or he woudl have a heart attack. He had been on pain meds but was starting not to be interested in food. I made an appointment to bring him to the vet on Saturday. We went to my parent’s house on Wednesday and he had a great walk with their Candy and said goodbye to all of the neighbors. I started to think I might have been premature. But Thursday morning (Thanksgiving) he wasn’t feeling well so I called my Mom to beg off and stayed home with him. Best decision I made. We stayed together all day and that night shortly after midnight he passed on his own in my arms. No need for me to keep that vet appointment. He was always a gentleman and I’d like to think he left on his own terms, after having his best walk and his best day, relieving me of the burden of having to take him for that last ride.