You know that I care
What happens to you
And I know that you care
For me too
So I don't feel alone
On the way to the stone
Now that I've found somewhere safe
To bury my bones
For any fool knows
A dog needs a home
A shelter
From pigs on the wing...
This is a hard entry for me to write. I'm writing it for you, future self, not because I think you will forget but because I want to say what happened, what really happened, at least through my here-in-2007 eyes so you can come back to this and see. I don't know if you will, or if you would, but I kind of need to do this anyway.
Our dog Buddy died December 21. He was 15. He was born on July 4th, 1992. He belonged to my wife, who adopted him as a puppy from Chelsea Kennels in Chelsea, MI. He was the runt of the litter, and she said when they opened the cage, all the other puppies scattered but he walked right up to her and that's when she knew he was hers.
The people at the kennel said he was the runt and she didn't want him, but all of the other dogs were $300 and they said all they had put into him was $40 worth of shots so she could have him for that.
After she got him home, she took him to the vet and he had a cancerous growth. They removed it and he was all hers. She originally wanted to name him Peanut but all of her friends called him Buddy, so that became his name.
I first met Buddy on my third date with her. I was walking up the stairs to her apartment when I met a beagle on the stairs. I put my hand out, and he sniffed it and wagged his tail and that was all it took. My wife said he bit her last date so I figured I was ahead of the curve, at least in the beagle department.
He went everywhere with her - on walks around the lake, to the video store (he was one of the few dogs allowed in the Uptown Hollywood Video), even to the supermarket - she would tie him outside and sometimes he would break loose and go in, padding up and down the aisles until he found her.
After we got married, he moved right in with us and the kids in the neighborhood all came to see the beagle. He could be standoffish - he'd tolerate a certain amount of petting from strangers and then let out a loud bay and back off from them. He got along with other dogs sort of OK, except for his pal Webster whom he liked a lot. He also liked our nephew quite a bit - when our nephew was very young he'd refer to Buddy as his son. He was always kind of cantankerous with me about getting off the couch, or if I would approach my wife while he was sitting on her lap.
He turned nine, ten, eleven. He seemed lonely, so we got another dog. He taught her how to act and taught me a lot about coaching (dogs do so much with attitude and example that people try to do with policies and process) Time went on, and his tricolor changed; first the brown went gray, then the black. He developed a cough; first in the morning, then morning and night, and finally all of the time. We took him to our regular vet, who acted like they'd never seen a sick dog before and a few hundred dollars of tests later said it was congestive heart failure and he'd have six months at the most. We started him on Lasix, which dehydrated him and stressed his kidneys, so he started peeing in the house, occasionally at first.
Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. He began to sleep in the living room because he could no longer get on and off the bed comfortably. Even with the lasix his cough got worse, and he got recurring ear infections which I had to treat with various medications, a muzzle, a handful of strips of cheese slices and q-tips. He stopped wanting to go on walks and when we would occasionally make him take a mile he would rarely be able to finish and I would carry him at least part way. Our other dog would try to play with him, bowing and barking, and he would bark at her while she ran in circles around him. He also started to have bouts of confusion, where he would stare off into space or bark at the wall for 10 minutes. His eyesight became worse as well.
Fifteen. His incontience became worse and worse; eventually he was peeing six times per day, in the house and finally in his bed. He started having seizures; I had been finding wet spots on the pillows and thought he was just drooling until I saw it happen one night. He started jerking and finally his whole body spasmed; he drooled and urinated, then laid panting for about five minutes. After that he seemed very confused and didn't know who I was or who our other (now completely hysterical) dog was. I took him to the vet, who said it was probably dehydration and I should make sure he always had water available.
Finally he started to become not just tired or confused but kind of lost. He'd kind of wander into the kitchen and beg, or find a way to always be in the way when I was carrying something heavy into the house. I saw him trying to go to the bathroom and a few drops of blood came out. We left to visit relatives, leaving our dogs with family, and when we got back he was wheezing and choking in spite of the Lasix.
I don't know why I'm writing all of this down. Maybe I'm still trying to make the case to myself that it had to be done. I am sure I am biasing the story, but I am the definition of an unreliable narrator so you have to live with that. All I can say is that this is what I saw and I am relating it to you as honestly as I can.
Finally we returned from our trip. I discussed it with my wife and she said she couldn't take him herself. I wanted to take him and be with him because I don't think you should have to go through that alone. Yesterday morning I woke up and he had urinated himself and his bed, and then walked through the house urinating. Typical. I don't think he was even aware he was doing it anymore, as he wasn't lifting his leg, just walking and peeing. I had stopped being mad at him for doing it a longt time ago.
I cleaned the house and called the vet, who didn't have any appointments until later. So I went to work but thought about it all day, and left early. I had read that dogs who have a pal can experience bereavement so I brought our other dog as well. I stopped at the cash machine and got money out, then went to McDonald's and bought a double cheeseburger meal.
On the way to the vet, I called to see if we could go straight in; I didn't want to be sitting in the waiting room with all of the other owners talking to him and looking at pictures of happy, healthy dogs who weren't about to die. Of course they were running late, and I got a little cross and asked when they could see him and they said ten minutes. So I sat out in the parking lot with the motor running and fed him french fries and cheeseburger pieces (I gave him one whole cheeseburger to himself and shared the other with our other dog) until the tech came out and said they were ready.
I had asked if I could speak to the vet beforehand; I still needed to hear a prognosis. I wasn't asking her to tell me what to do, that's not fair to the vet, but I did need her to tell me what his future looked like. She was very polite and professional; she listened to my description, looked at his chart, examined him and said that his heart was kind of oK, his lungs were congested, his bladder was failing either through stones or infection and he had severe arthritis. She also said that his pupils were different sizes, and based on his general demeanor while she was examining him that she thought it was likely he had brain damage due to either stroke or some kind of damage. I think she was making the case for herself and if she hadn't agreed with me that this was necessary she would have refused to do it or at least asked me to see another doctor.
She stated her opinion was that individually most of the symptoms were possibly treatable but the dementia was not. Even if they could resolve the other issues he would not be any more functional or outgoing than he was at the moment. I said it was time and I wanted to proceed with the euthansia. I wasn't especially upset - I was by no means happy or at peace with what was happening, though. I think it was mostly denial. We talked about the process, and she asked if I'd like the remains and said she had to go prepare but would send in a tech with the forms. I said I had my other dog and I would like to bring her in after so she could see him; I thought this might help her understand that he was not coming home. She said that was fine, and if I wanted to do that I should, because it wouldn't be right for me to feel like I should have done that.
She left, and I held him for a while and talked to him. Mostly he just stared at the wall but once he looked at me and stuck his nose toward me. It was pretty brief. The tech came in with the form and explained it to me, I looked at it but it could have been the deed to my soul for all I rememeber. They also wanted to be paid up front.
Finally the vet came in and we put him on the table; the idea was to give him a sedative to calm him and then a push of the fatal drug. She lifted his hind leg to give him the sedative and he started crying; his back legs were pretty immobile by that time and any time they were touched he would usually cry. She got about half the shot pushed in and he decided to lay down. I petted him and put my hand near his nose, where he could smell me. His eye was open and looking at me and he started making his usual snoring sound. I petted him and talked to him and at this point I became pretty emotional. At this point I am positive that the lights in the room flickered.
The vet did the second push and listened to his heart - in about 30 seconds I could feel his breathing start to slow and finally cease. A few minutes later she said "his heart's stopped" and I stood there with him for a while. The vet left us alone - I said thanks, and I meant it, though it sounded and felt awkward, it was the right word to use.
I brought our other dog in, and she was so wound up from an hour in the car that she was pretty boisterous. She stepped on him a couple of times, but twice she stopped and sniffed him for a good five seconds. Then she started licking my face, and I hugged him one more time and it was time to go.
Then I went and had two 7 & 7s and that was it. Now we just have to get used to life without him.
I hope this doesn't come across as excessively clinical - I don't mean to sound dispassionate. I just want to record the facts, because time smears them and makes things change in your recollection and I want to be clear about things. So this is to you, future self, not to make you relive the events but to know what they looked like at the time.
He was our dog, and he was a good dog, and it was time for him to go. I'm not sad about that. I'm sad that he got old, and sad that he had to go at all, and sad that we're older too. But I hope you remember him fondly, and you look at this as I am looking at it now; part of being a responsible pet owner and what you take on when you take responsibility for the life of an animal.
