My mom and dad adopted Daisy in 2003. She came from the Humane Society and was of undetermined breed, although I believe she was part poodle. She was very shy and hid in the corners and under tables, but eventually gained confidence and started to trust us. They passed away in 2003, so I took Daisy’s care upon myself. I also had my own dog at the time and they got along well. They were both easy to take care of and Daisy eventually began to trust and to love me. She had a very gentle spirit, so it was easy to be patient until she came around.
Over time, she began to have health problems. She started losing her vision and became blind. But she adapted well. She had enough of a mental map to navigate around the house with confidence. She always knew where her food and water were and still went to the door to be let outside.
She began developing problems with her kidneys. She had had a few blood tests and her renal values began dropping. She started losing her appetite and began to lose weight. Last Thursday she stopped eating altogether. She wouldn’t take treats, or burger style dog food, or anything that would normally tempt her. I took her to the veterinarian today and had an honest discussion with the doctor. She said Daisy’s chances were guarded to poor. She could give her IV fluids and Daisy might feel better for a few days, then turn around and worsen. I had already come to the decision to have her out to sleep because I didn’t want to see her die of starvation. What a Catch 22, eh? After discussing Daisy’s options with the vet, she assured me I wasn’t rushing into the decision, that the prognosis for the dog was poor, and I would be doing her a kindness.
They put a catheter in her leg, then returned her to the exam room so I could say my good-byes. I stroked her head and told her I was so sorry. Then the vet and her assistant came back in the room and lifted Daisy onto the table. I stood at Daisy’s head and stroked and comforted her. The vet injected her catheter with the anesthetic and Daisy gradually went limp, lay down and closed her eyes. The vet listened to her heart and told me she was indeed gone.
I took a few more minutes to compose myself, then I took Daisy’s leash and collar off, thanked the vet and came home.
I had more time with Daisy than my parents did with her. She was only seven. I still have another dog, a great black Lab named Brewster. He’s young and healthy, but I don’t think I’ll get a second dog. I don’t have the health to take care of two dogs anymore, I’ll just love Brewster up for the next 10 years or how ever many we’re fortunate enough to have.
I know this post sounds pretty dry and clinical, but I’m shedding tears. I’m one of those people who has trouble conveying emotion in my words. I’ve had to have dogs put down before, and it never gets easier. You do what you can to take care of a pet, but at the end of every life there’s death, and if you want the joy of owning a dog, you have to deal with the heartbreak. But at the end, no matter what happens, you do what you do out of love for the animal. That’s what makes it hard, finding a balance between keeping the dog alive out of selfishness and knowing when to let go for the sake of not causing the dog any more suffering. At least Daisy was alert and responsive until the end. She was able to function almost normally. She even jumped up on the couch yesterday to take a nap and I didn’t have the heart to tell her to get down. She was able to face her end with far more dignity than I.
