As one could predict, I was a bit of a mess last week. Making the euthanasia appointment for my beloved Otto, and being with him until it was time for the final injection, was just impossibly hard. It was the second-guessing that was most torturous – wondering at the moments when he seemed to be doing well whether this was the right decision.
I’ve had several friends whose dogs were suddenly stricken with a condition that either killed them or had an impossible prognosis, making immediate euthanasia the only rational choice. Is it bizarre to say that, as Otto passed his 15th birthday, I started to wish for such an event, a crisis that would take the “Is this the right time?” euthanasia decision out of my hands? But no such event occurred; I had to take full responsibility to decide whether and when Otto’s bad days were outnumbering his good ones. Making life-or-death, suffering-or-release decisions should be difficult, but man, was it taxing. And over the course of the week following I did all the things that humans tend to do when overwhelmed with grief: locked my keys in my car while getting ready for an early-morning walk with Woody and Boone (fortunately at home, where my husband was available to help sort this out once he woke up), couldn’t eat, then ate too much, burst into tears at random moments . . .
Maybe not completely random. Some of the puppies I haven been fostering for the past six weeks for my local shelter had neuter surgery and were up for adoption at the shelter. Two days after my husband and I buried Otto, I was training some new volunteers at the shelter when a young couple and their five-year-old daughter came in, looking for a puppy of a small-to-medium size to adopt. I raced to gather “my” puppies for them to meet in the shelter’s “get acquainted room”– I was disappointed that none of them had been adopted the first day they were available, and any one of them would be perfect for this family. Happily, the family chose one of the pups, and I got to see them preparing to carry him out of the shelter – the whole goal of my fostering and volunteering efforts, right? I said, “Wait! Let me say goodbye!” and I ran over to hold his little face in my hands and kiss him on the nose and say, “Be a good dog! Have a good life!” But then my face immediately crumpled and I barely choked out the words, “Thank you!” before rushing out of the shelter lobby, tears flowing. I wanted that adoption to happen – I practically forced them to take one of the puppies! – but the whole idea of just launching that little life out into the world with unknown people and an unknowable future … it just overwhelmed me for a minute.
People’s kindness also is overwhelming when you’re feeling raw. I would be perfectly functional, and then would receive a text or call from a friend saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about Otto!” and BOOM, the tears would flow freely again. I had cancelled a dog-training class I was supposed to teach the day before Otto’s appointment, and, early this week, thanked the class for accepting the postponement of that session. After class, some of my students (a couple) handed me a gift bag that held a bottle of wine and a fine chocolate bar – and immediately, again, I could barely choke out my thanks. They said, “We know what it’s like, we’ve lost some fine dogs over the years, it always hurts!”
All of your comments and messages, too – thank you, I so appreciate your kind remarks and remembrances of some of Otto’s early exploits. I have been reading them in short spurts, because it’s so emotional. It’s obvious that you guys get it, you’ve been there. Many of you shared stories about your own lost, sainted dogs, and those stories are painful and wonderful, too.
When we make the decision to love a dog, most of us expect to outlive them; the difference in our usual lifespans makes our surviving their death an almost certain event. We know what we’re getting into – that we’re signing up for some future pain – from the outset. And the more we love them, and the more that they love us, the more pain we can expect! So, I’m rolling with all of it – the sudden face-crumpling, on-and-off crying jags, and even the locking-my-keys-in-the-car moments – in memory and celebration of my very good dog. Thank you for allowing me to share him with you for all of these years, and for your appreciation of him, too.
Nancy, I loved your stories about Otto over the years. Rather than another kind wish that brings the inevitable tears, I’ll tell you how I deal with the losses. Most of my dogs were given a “voice” when they were with me, so they could comment or complain: the snobby scholar, the Jersey punk, the shy northern county boy, the southern social butterfly. They still talk about made up adventures, and tell me how content they are at The Bridge, and sometimes how they miss me, and sometimes how a sibling is still annoying them. Sometimes the right fantasy can stop the tears. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not a fantasy at all. I hope this gives you a reason to smile.
Just wanted to say again that I totally understand what you are feeling, and sadly, it lasts a long long time. I still grieve at times for my two huskies who died two years apart, in 2016 and 2018, and even though I now have a one year old Pomsky who just celebrated his first birthday. Of course, loving him helps, but he can never replace the other two, and I can , 5 years later, still dissolve into tears over one or the other. They are all different and unique, and almost daily I realize that this little guy, as sweet as he is, isn’t them. I have found that the love for a dog is different from the love for a human person: it is far more immediate, and gut wrenching and raw to feel their loss. I wish you alll the best as your weather this new loss. I wish you more puppies, who grow into wonderful friends for life.