Well, our elderly shepherd/lab mix, Scout, just took her last trip to the vet this morning. Mr. S found her in her kennel yesterday morning unwillling to get up or accept food and otherwise acting strangely; the vet diagnosed an ear infection and gave her a shot that was supposed to have produced improvement by this morning. But today she was pretty much the same: wouldn’t take food (though she shared a bit of my lunchmeat and had a little rice yesterday), would drink water but brought it right back up, hadn’t been up on her feet since yesterday and had no desire to get up except for repositioning herself while lying down. After consulting with the vet again and considering her back-end arthritis, we decided that her quality of life was not likely to come back.
This was the first time I’d had to make that call, and strangely, making the decision and saying the words was the hardest part. We’d known this day was coming. She went very peacefully, with three people petting her and telling her she was a good dog. And now she won’t have any more stiff mornings.
She had a good long run – 14-1/2 years, the last 3+ years courtesy of the meds that relieved her arthritis, prescribed after another hard day that we’d thought was her last. I’m glad she got to see another springtime and warm weather.
Tomorrow we’ll put her up on the hill with the other pups who’ve gone before.
So goodbye, you crazy dog, who escaped from your pen one day after we brought you home at 8 weeks and made us run around the yard yelling “Puppy! Puppy!” because we hadn’t named you yet (you would have been “Miss Jean Louise Finch” if you’d had papers); whose nicknames included “Houdini” (because that first escape was only a harbinger of things to come), “cinnamon toast dog” (because that’s exactly what color you were), and “Monster” (because you were the biggest dog we ever had); who used to love biting at the stream of water from the hose, aimed right at your face, until you grew out of it a few years ago; who still loved a good sploosh in your pool on a hot day; who loved to growl at and knock around the hard plastic ball we bought you after you’d punctured every other kind; who protected puppydog Phyllis from an interloper at a family picnic; and who until only a few days ago could not be persuaded that you were an old lady with heart failure and arthritis and still routinely bounded across the yard at the end of your leash, nearly pulling my arm out of its socket.
Good night, good girl. I’m glad you didn’t suffer very much or very long. You’ve earned a good rest.
Thanks so much, everyone. It’s good to know we’re not alone. (Especially with tomorrow being my birthday and all . . . that’s a whole 'nother thing. Mr. S was going to bake me a fancy cake from scratch this week, but we ended up using that time to take care of Scout. And he’s working all weekend, blech. But I’ve got a friend coming over for munchie-and-chick-flick night, so that’ll be fun.)
We put Scout “up on the hill” this morning, in our puppy graveyard. Mr. S built her a nice box and tucked her in with her bed; I put a biscuit in too, and later we’ll mark the spot with her old faded plastic ball that the other dogs ignore. Now she’ll be able to run and lope as much as she wants; she always was one to head for the hills on those long legs, and she resisted most attempts at voice training, which is why we eventually just gave up, enlarged her kennel, and bought a loooooong retractable leash. And this past summer she also got to explore our new fenced orchard and sploosh in the pool we set up down there while I lounged in the hammock.
Our life will be a bit easier now, true; three dogs, especially one that needed separate attention, were a bit much to handle sometimes. We’d always said that when Scout was gone we’d just stick with the two springers who are buddies and go everywhere together. (Scout was, after all, kind of a “secondary” dog; she didn’t have quite the house manners to be a full-time house dog, and after she got old she couldn’t climb the stairs to sleep with us, so I’m sure she felt a bit left out at times.) And I won’t miss the monthly medication bills.
But I’ll miss that old knothead Scout.
Now if I can just keep pretending that 8-year-old Phyllis and 6-year-old Dottie are still puppies . . .
I went through this in February. Be consoled that you gace Scout a great life, and treasure the memories. Who knows, maybe the Allmighty will let us see our dogs again-I hope!
Aww, I’m sorry.
I’m a total dog geek, and have a tendency to remember people by their pets. I recognized Scout, from your past mentions, and felt a pang when I saw the thread title.
I hope someday I’m fortunate enough to go peacefully, surrounded with family and loves and pats.
