Doc Jones wrote:The bond between man and dog can be a sacred, powerful thing. Too often, people don't realize the strength of the bond until the end.
It's incredible: at any vet office you can witness huge, strong, burly men
weeping like babes when they have to put their dogs down. It's amazing
the hold pets can have on us. It's why grown men always cry when
watching "Old Yeller".
I've always thought this poem applied equally well to dogs:
To Love Again
Oh what unhappy twist of fate
Has brought you homeless to my gate,
The gate where once another stood
To beg for shelter warmth and food?
For from that day I ceased to be
The master of my destiny,
While she, with purr and velvet paw
Became within my house the law.
She scratched the furniture and shed
And claimed the middle of my bed,
She ruled in arrogance and pride
And broke my heart the day she died.
So if you really think, oh cat
I'd willingly relive all that,
Because you come forlorn and thin
Well don't just stand there - come on in!
Doc Jones wrote:The bond between man and dog can be a sacred, powerful thing. Too often, people don't realize the strength of the bond until the end.
It's incredible: at any vet office you can witness huge, strong, burly men
weeping like babes when they have to put their dogs down. It's amazing
the hold pets can have on us. It's why grown men always cry when
watching "Old Yeller".
For men like my dad--who got the full 'stiff upper lip' upbringing--dogs were the only beings he could express his emotions to.
And now there was no doubt that the trees were really moving - moving in and out through one another as if in a complicated country dance. ('And I suppose,' thought Lucy, 'when trees dance, it must be a very, very country dance indeed.')
I'm so sorry for your loss Simon, and I understand, as much as anyone can ever understand how another feels, what you're going through.
We had our first dog, Sophie, put down a month ago. I went to San Diego for work leaving behind a healthly 10 year old dog, received a call that she seemed to have some respiratory problems on Wednesday afternoon (the vet saw her that evening and said to come back in the next day), and my wife called to tell me the next morning that Sophie had lung cancer with 17+ spots on her lungs.
We put her down the day after I came back into town, on Saturday, 3 days after the diagnosis...it was all so sudden and she went from seeming totally normal on Wednesday morning to being in extreme respiratory distress by Saturday (despite being on high dose steroids in an attempt to ease her symptoms).
It's amazing the void a pet leaves when they pass on...
Jayhawk wrote:..it was all so sudden and she went from seeming totally normal on Wednesday morning to being in extreme respiratory distress by Saturday (despite being on high dose steroids in an attempt to ease her symptoms).
Ouch. That sounds awful. I'm sorry to hear it. At least I had 2 months to get used to the idea, and two months to spoil my dog before the end.
And now there was no doubt that the trees were really moving - moving in and out through one another as if in a complicated country dance. ('And I suppose,' thought Lucy, 'when trees dance, it must be a very, very country dance indeed.')
Simon, I'm so sorry for your loss. The love of a good dog is one of those things that can't be bought, but add enormous value to our lives. We shouldn't have dogs if we don't love them, and the price we pay for that love is the pain we feel when their short lives end. It's worth it. I count myself lucky to be among those who have experienced that love, with a series of fine dogs.
I hope that when you're ready, you'll get another dog. You'll never have your old friend back, but you'll find you can love a new friend when you've healed a bit, and the memories are bittersweet.
Eric, I'm sorry for your loss too. I think the suddenness makes it even harder. I've had one dog die of cancer, young (5) and suddenly (she lived 3 weeks after diagnosis before we decided it was kindest to end her pain quickly). Others died naturally of old age (at ages 12 & 13) or were euthanized when old age became too painful (age 15). The cancer death was by far the hardest for me.
I love the way James put it: "He was in pain, and you weren't; you arranged it so that now he's not in pain and you are."
Years ago I took Casper to a vet's office in another town to have a dressing changed. He howled and yelped and struggled.
"He doesn't do that when you're not here," that vet observed, amused.
Ever since, I've talked about Casper being a drama queen. He certainly was at nail-clipping time. When the chips were down and it really folking hurt, however, he didn't utter a peep. On the last day he was in so much pain that he snapped at Lori, someone he loved and had known since a shortly after I got him, and whom he had lived with (or near) off and on for years. I can't recall him snapping at anyone, ever, but he did then. But an hour later he yelped when I tried to lift him. He scrambled to his feet himself and allowed me put my arms around him and lift. I tried to do it without moving his legs, although I doubt I was more than half successful. He let me carry him to the car without a sound. We got into the car and he rode without complaining. He was trembling, I think from the pain. He hadn't moved an inch from his bed at all that day. We arrived at the clinic and he let me pick him up again and carry him into the exam room. I put him down on the table, and got the blanket and tucked it under him. He was rigid with pain, and trembling. I got a chair and moved it round so that I was sitting in front of him. He watched my eyes and I watched his, stroking his head, while he slowly relaxed and the pain of being picked up and carried subsided. His breathing steadied. The vet finished xraying some other dog, and came in with a syringe loaded with tranquilizer.
"He's in a lot of pain", I said. "Especially if you move his legs." Casper winced a bit when the needle went in, but didn't complain. The vet said he'd be back in ten minutes while Casper got sleepy. I sat there with him, and ten minutes ticked away. His eyes half closed, but Casper didn't sleep. I stroked his fur and tried to sob as quietly as I could. The vet came in with a great big hypodermic, and asked me to hold Casper's head down, in case he reacted. He didn't react. When the plunger was almost to the end, I asked how long it would take. "About now," the vet said "that's a lot of anesthetic. His heart might go on beating for a little while, but.."
"No!" I wanted to scream. "That's too soon! No!" I didn't say anything. The vet left, fast. I looked at Casper's eyes and they didn't look different. I put my hand in front of his nose and tried to feel for breath. I couldn't tell. One loose dog hair crossed in front of a nostril, and fluttered, softly. I couldn't tell if it was my breath or his, or nothing but wishful thinking. I don't think I stayed there a long time, but eventually the vet assistant opened the door. She started apologising for disturbing me the moment she saw my face, but she needed me to settle up, and to tell her whether I wanted his ashes. She kept apologising and averted her gaze all the while, like you do when you see someone in so much distress it feels like you've invaded a privacy just by looking. I was trying to cooperate. I punched my bank card numbers blankly and then went back to see Casper. "Take as long as you need," she said. The clinic closed at one and it was probably at least that. I could hear another woman and her dog in the waiting room. I gathered my stuff and lifted Casper to remove the blanket, feeling awful about it. His body flopped limply like a corpse and I felt it like a blow. The vet was an old guy, close to retirement. On another visit he'd insisted on helping me lift Casper up onto this very examination table. He was a man who had learned to be careful of his back. I'm glad I didn't know then that Casper was going to die right there, on that table only a few months later. I didn't want to think of the vet, or he and the nurse, or whoever, hauling Casper down the hall like dead weight. I didn't want to think of anyone treating him like garbage. I made myself turn my back and leave the room.
"Do you need me to help carry him someplace?" I asked the assistant.
"Ne!" she said, sounding shocked. I stumbled out the front door with a roaring in my ears, and it was over.
And now there was no doubt that the trees were really moving - moving in and out through one another as if in a complicated country dance. ('And I suppose,' thought Lucy, 'when trees dance, it must be a very, very country dance indeed.')
Losing those that you love hurts. It doesn't hurt any less if they walk on four legs than on two....hurts differently, maybe, but not less.
When we lost 'Bug last year, I cried for hours, unashamed, like a child. He was in advanced adrenal disease, in spite of having had the surgery that usually fixes that problem, and he had developed a bowel blockage.
The poor little guy all night had been going from one corner of the cage to another, trying to get some relief, just around in a circle, all night long.
We knew what it meant and we knew it was time.
Shan held 'Bug while the needle went in, and she held him until the light in his eyes went out. He was no longer hurting; it was the first real rest he'd had in days.
We both cried and cried, and even as I type this I have tears in my eyes again.
Pain shared is pain halved, they say.
I hope that in time you'll consider getting another dog. There are so many good animals that need a good home, and so few people to care for them and love them as they deserve to be loved.
But one of my favourite animals died when I was out of the country. That still hurts.
To be there with them, is something.
We lost our dog of 18 years when we were out of the country, and I've never really been able to get over the fact that I wasn't there for him. Hard as it is, I think there's healing also in doing this final, loving thing for them.
Redwolf
...agus déanfaidh mé do mholadh ar an gcruit a Dhia, a Dhia liom!
I'm so sorry for your loss, Simon. The first post of the thread brought quiet tears; by the time I finished the post about the vet's office I was bawling. I could feel it... empathy blended with my own memories...I remember the way the moment seems to spin out into an hour, that moment between your dear pup's last breath and....
Gut-wrenching to read, but I thank you for telling us about how it was, about Casper...you're building a memorial to him, here.
I am so very sorry for your loss, Simon. Thank you for your initial post...it was heart wrenching, but beautiful because your love for him was so evident.
Someday, everything is gonna be diff'rent
When I paint my masterpiece.
