I am facing the loss of one of my own pets very soon. Our 16-year-old pit bull, Nyse (yes, named after the stock exchange; it’s a long story for another day) is fast losing ground. She has no firm diagnosis – she is just wasting away, and spends her remaining days shuffling around the house, searching for something she will never find, like a ghost in a gothic horror tale.
‘Cognitive dysfunction’ and ‘sarcopenia’ are as close to a diagnosis as my wife and I (both veterinary specialists) can come to after several rounds of testing, but those terms are descriptive and not really diseases. There is no shot, pill or form of therapy for either one. My wife and I are struggling to find the right time to euthanize her. She is not in pain (that we can detect), is still eating and gets around, but to look at her is to look at a skin-draped skeleton, and her eyes long ago lost the mischievous sparkle that they once had. She sleeps a lot, and when she is not sleeping she just paces relentlessly and seems perpetually confused. She is alive, but not really living.
How this will play out, only time will tell – I doubt we will get the gift of a peaceful passing in the night; the one that everyone hopes for and no one gets. She’s too tough and crotchety for that sort of namby-pamby end to her life. More than likely, she will continue to grind down and we will have to step in and say enough, time to go. We’ll have to see, and we have made plans for the where and how it will happen (probably at home with meds I have brought from work; I will be the one to give the injection), we just don’t quite know the when or the why.
She used to be able to jump five feet straight up in the air, and if a canine face can express joy that was the expression she was wearing while doing it.
Facing this has made me think of the countless times that I have been with pet owners during their own experience with euthanasia. Euthanasia is a big part of what emergency and critical care veterinarians do. I have seen euthanasia and family reactions in many forms – quiet, angry, distraught, sullen, screaming, accepting, relieved, even (once) morbidly curious. (A family had gathered to euthanize a sick pet. After I gave the injection and their pet had breathed its last, the tween son of the family, who looked to fancy himself a bit of a Goth, said one sotto voce word: “cool.”)
Despite the variety of emotions surrounding these many euthanasias, I have noticed a phenomenon than happens during many of them: the pet owners’ need to tell the story of their pet and the pet’s place in the family. It truly seems like a need – they seem compelled, in many cases, to recount how the pet came to them, notable or funny things that their pet did during its life or some other factor that says "he was here and we loved him." They need to mark the moment somehow and commemorate the loss of a friend.
We lack the formalized rituals for animals that people undergo when they die. Pet funerals happen, but they are definitely not the norm and only a tiny fraction of pets have an actual ceremony. I can only think of perhaps four or five that have happened in the 16 years I have been in practice, and I have been involved in literally thousands of euthanasias and deaths. Pet owners don’t often get societal permission to grieve the loss of a pet; they are seen as emotionally weak, overly attached or somehow defective. For a human, the ritual of a funeral is part of the healing process; pet owners just have to suck it up and move on.
Telling the tale, there in the exam or grieving room, in a private sanctuary, allows them to grieve and come to terms with some part of the loss, if only for a few minutes. I am not a big believer in ‘closure,’ but I do think this ritual that people go through, this recounting, helps them move on and live.
It usually goes like this: The injection has been given, and I have confirmed with a stethoscope that the heart has stopped and the pet has died. When I let the owners know, they often cry for a moment or so, then dry their tears and start in on the tale; “You know, we got him from the shelter at about 3 months old, and he could fit in your hand.”
-or-
“He always slept at the foot of my son’s bed – never left his side, even when he was so sick.”
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“He had this stuffed hedgehog that he loved like it was his baby. Damn thing smelled like a pigpen on a hot day, but he loved that thing.”
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“He loved to chase after cars in the driveway and bark like a madman, but he was so gentle. He would come up when we were watching TV and just put his head in your lap.”
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“She is all I have left of my wife – she died last year.”
The stories are heartbreaking, funny, cryptic, touching. Even if I am very busy, I make time to listen. I rarely say anything unless asked – my job is to pay attention and serve as another person to remember. There will be a hole in a household, and telling the tale makes it a little more bearable. Someone knows, someone remembers, someone retains the memory that she loved to chase dragonflies or he barked at shadows or she would swim in the lake with the boys until dusk.
I have many important jobs as a doctor – making treatment plans, calculating doses correctly, checking for tumors on X-rays – but listening, and in particular, listening when it comes time to tell the story of a pet and a family, is the most important.
147 Comments
Bridget
October 7,2023
This morning my heart broke when I had to say goodbye to my little man Winky. Winky was my Sphynx cat that I rescued 2 years ago from my old work, an animal shelter. He was my foster boy to start, and then he became my forever boy. At least, his forever, which was not nearly long enough.
Sphynx cats are known to be inquisitive, very social & sweet, and somewhat of a character. Winky was no exception to that, and more. He was the funniest dude I've ever come across, so gentle and kind, chatty and playful, but also loved the rough and tumble. We got along like a house on fire, and our bond was unbreakable. I'm a single female with no current ties, so I made the big decision recently to move hours and hours from home, to live near my sister and get a job in town. A fresh start with Winky, just me and him in a new place of our own. The move was organised via road trip, in my solo camping van alongside my parents in their camper van. Winky was very good in almost any situation. He adapted very well to any environment, he was well trained, walked on lead/harness, and to be honest, he was a little too curious and often didn't give people their personal space. He was nosey but one of his many charms I adored. He was just full of life. The only thing holding him back was his travel sickness. I had completely prepared the trip, just a little over a week long, with his travel sickness management medication prescribed from the vets from my old work, a comfortable travel crate, all his belongings including bedding, grooming equipment etc. No matter how much I convince myself that I did everything to make his travel as comfortable as possible, I still guilt trip myself and ask the questions - did I play the music too loud in my car during the road tripping as I was excited for the final destination? Should I have been more conscious of his reduced appetite and not just tell myself he's probably not as hungry due to the travel, and finally, was it a mistake to give him his travel medication so many days in a row? I think no matter what, there is always a level of guilt when it comes to the death of a loved one. Yesterday he was perfectly fine, his normal self, stopping to stretch his legs and take walk breaks between travel. A little tired looking, but understandbly. Last night was our final night of camping before we reached our destination and we would begin our new lives. Our camp spot was basic and in a rural town. My parents were in bed in their van, Winky was asleep in the front of my van in his bed, and I was scrolling tik tok, thinking he was probably just too tired from the days travels to come and cuddle with me like he usually would. Suddenly he jumps into the back of the van, where my bed was, and seeks out his litter tray on the ground. I start to smell very potent flatulence and know something is wrong. He starts resting in his litter tray which he would never do. He then begins to look weak. He then begins to start dry retching and moaning, nothing coming out. He also started leaking from his behind. I panicked and started searching the nearest vet, and due to the rural location of my site, the vet in town was closed for the weekend (this being a Saturday night), and the nearest help was miles and miles away. You can't really drive along rural highways late at night in outback QLD, you are likely to have a run in with a Kangaroo on the road or a late night trucker. I woke my parents up and they helped me nurse him. He found a comfortable spot on a blanket my Mum lay out on the grass outside, I made sure his water and tray was nearby, and all I could do was cuddle him and make sure he was warm. Couple hours went by and I didn't sleep a wink, I just watched him, and he was still battling on and shuffling around, coming up for what would be one last cuddle with me. He then begin to make a choking sound and I woke my parents again, heart in my throat. I told them I needed to go to the nearest emergency, and I went back to Winky and he looked lifeless, eyes rolled back. I held him in my arms, tears in my eyes and I asked my Mum what was going on, she just hugged me and told me he was passing. I couldn't, and still can't accept that. I told them I should go to the emergency, but my Dad reminded my of the logics. This help was miles away, Winky was passing in my arms, if we want a peaceful send off, it would be in our company, me holding him gently, not a 2 hour bumpy car ride in the middle of the night along a dangerous stretch of road, in hopes he would maybe make it. My Mum wrapped him in a blanket and held him close to her, she said he was breathing peacefully and his heart rate was slowing. He looked comfortable. I got comfortable in my van bed, and my Mum handed Winky to me, still wrapped in a blanket. We actually thought he had passed away, but I could still hear his little breathes. I hope it doesn't haunt me for too long, wondering if I should have made the drive. My thoughts ran wild, and I begin to tingle all over and felt like my stomach would come through my chest. I talked to him and told him if he wanted to pass, he should, and that it's alright. I also prayed for a miracle, which never came. I guess heaven needed him more. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I heard him cough a few times, and take his last breath, while I had my arms wrapped around him. I'm now at my final destination and it's very bitter sweet. I was meant to start my new temporary life here, me and Winky. But Winky has now been taken by a lovely man who offered to pick him up, on a Sunday, to get him cremated and in a couple days, I will receive his urn and a mould of his paw print. I type this with tears in my eyes, hoping this traumatic loss does not hold me back too much, from me finding my feet around this new town, with a new job, new faces. I have my sister, her family, and the rest of my immediate family here visiting, which is so comforting. But once I get my own place, there will be a big hole in my heart, and a very quiet and empty room that was meant to be his. We don't know his diagnosis or what caused this, possibly he had an underlying medical issue that was not known to us. But, nothing prepares you for the moment you see your best friend, limp and lifeless, cold. Perfectly normal this time yesterday, now over the rainbow bridge today.❤️ Rest in paradise little man, I love you and will see you on the other side one day.
Carl
July 14, 2023
On Wednesday morning (7/12/2023) I lost my Brandy, a beautiful pit bull who I thought had years of love left to give. On Tuesday night, she started to seem a little off but I wasn’t sure what was going on, and nothing I thought was emergent. Early Wednesday morning, she was having trouble walking and I took her to a 24-hour vet clinic just to be safe. It turned out she had hemangiosarcoma and it was already too late for her. Within 12 hours of her showing any signs of distress, she was gone. A rumor had ruptured on her spleen and she was bleeding out in her abdomen. It was so sudden. I had just gone to get her food and a new toy on Tuesday afternoon. Nothing could have prepared me for what would happen the next morning. I am devastated beyond what I thought was possible. I loved her more than anything in this world. I knew I would see her pass at some point, but I thought I had several years before having to go through this. She passed surrounded by those who loved her and will always be remembered in our hearts. It just goes to show that nothing in life that we love should be taken for granted, ever, as we simply don’t know when we will lose it. I’m thankful that spaces like this exist to share our pain and see that we are not alone in our grief.
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