Ruffian, I’m so sorry.
I know this is very difficult, as I’ve been through it before, and will again, in the near future.
Know that Angel loves you, and she knows that you love her.
You have my deepest heartfelt condolences.
Godspeed, Angel.
Good girl, Angel. Atta girl.
I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry too Ruffian. Our Mastiff, Riley, has lymphoma and is nearing the end too. He’s not even 7 yet. Best damned dog I ever had. I hope Angel enjoys the time she has with you. Actually, I’m sure she does.
It’s over.
I’m so sorry.
You have my sympathy–I know I cried off and on for weeks when lil Sammie Cat died.
{{{HUGS}}}
I’m so sorry, Ruffian, for the pain and grief you’re in right now. It’s such a hard row to hoe with our beloved pets, who can’t tell us exactly how they love us, yet do, in every day to day acts. And we can’t say exactly why we love them either, but, still do, and coddle and pet and feed them, give good light to their acts toward us, and, then, with all the love in tow, the lifetime of delight and inexplicable bonding between totally different creatures, accept the biggest difference. The difference of insight and understanding suffering, and the ability to be able to end that suffering, out of love.
It’s such a hard decision, but you did it by knowing her as her best self, loving her, and not wanting to see her suffer more. You did the best thing possible.
I hope your sweet memories of Angel will give your heart strength through your time of grieving her.
We first got Angel after my brief stint working at a pet store right after I graduated college. She had an unsightly though harmless medical condition called collie nose that caused her to lose small patches of fur around her eyes. Like all sick or otherwise unattractive animals, she was “pulled from the shelves,” shoved in a crate, and hidden in the back where customers wouldn’t see her. She was mostly ignored as the owners would angrily chastise wprkers for spending time caring for sick animals in the back when we should be on the floor “pushing the product,” as they put it.
She was in that crate for at least two weeks. It wasn’t until the second week that I realized there was a puppy in that crate–because an assistant manager had written a note on the white board reminding us to take care of her. Apparently, she was sometimes going without food, without water, and would lie in her own waste.
The store owners didn’t know what to do with her. The vet said her condition wouldn’t go away, and the breeder–who had refunded the store–didn’t want her back. I spoke with my parents about her, and the offered to take her own; the store owner said we could take her, but we wouldn’t get her papers (who cares) and we couldn’t tell anyone where we got her from. I quit within a week of taking her home with us and told EVERYONE exactly where she’d come from and how she’d been treated. The store has long since closed.
I still lived with my parents at the time, so I took her hiome from work that day and spent the summer training her. As she would be her entire life, she was eager to please, attentive, and intelligent. In no time, she was housetrained and would sit, lie down, roll over, sit up, shake, stay, and heel on command. She also knew “Angel, go to bed,” and when told, “Angel, go pee!” she knew she was to go outside to the grass and pee, however small the amount, before she would be allowed back in the house.
When she was nine, my father’s health had rapidly deteriorated and she had been mostly ignored. Obese and arthritic, she was pathetic. DeathLlama and I took her in, got her medical care, had her teeth done, and shaved 5lbs off her…dramatically improving her arthritic limp. She had been our dog for the last three years, but I have known her all 12.
It fucking sucked, but yesterday, it was time.
I tried taking her for a walk yesterday, and though her tail wagged and ears pricked when I picked up the leash, we only went a few houses before her limp grew more apparent and her panting labored. She ignored the barked greetings from neighborhood dogs, and when I alerted her to a kitty–the ultimate test–she didn’t so much as prick her ears.
I was crying as soon as we parked the truck in the vet’s parking lot, and DeathLlama just said, “It’s okay, it’s okay to cry love.” I had to suppress sobs as I went in the vet clinic, and was grateful there was no one else in the wait room to see us. It wasn’t so much I was embarrassed I was crying as I didn’t want someone already anxious about their own pet’s condition to see us in such ominous distress. The young woman at the counter didn’t ask us a thing; she knew who we were and why we were there. “They’re getting everything ready for you,” is all she said.
The vet led us in, and was so very comforting and sympathetic. She reassured me that this was the right thing, and that we obviously cared so very much for our dog.
We were there to the end, stroking and petting her. I wept almost the entire time, and even normally stoic DeathLlama began crying. We stroked her and scratched her face, still itchy from the collie nose that was stubbornly present her entire life. We repeatedly let herknow what a wonderful dog she was, and how much we loved her and were grateful to have her. The sedative they gave her helped her relax, easing her pain and anxiety. “Good dog, Angel, good girl,” I repeated. “Thank you, Angel. Thank you, thank you, thank you, good dog. You sleep now. No more pain. You sleep now.” As I spoke those words and wept, the vet tech there to assist began crying, as well. I didn’t watch the vet administer the pink juice, but I knew when it was over. I could see the change in Angel’s face.
Last night, after RuffLlama went to bed, I automatically was pulled to go let the dog in; then, every time I heard the cats’ claws on the wood floor, or the jangle of their collars and tags, I just automatically thought it was her.
Normally at night, when we were all going to bed, Angel would be let out to pee then brought in to sleep in her extra-large crate. When DeathLlama came in last night to bed, he was weeping because…there was no dog to put to bed.
She had a good life, and was a wonderful dog. It was time. It sucked, but it was time. A good death–which is what euthanasia means–is the least we could offer her.
Pictures of Angel on her last day, after lots of grooming and loving:
Sweet face to the very end.
And here she is in her prime–the way I prefer to remember her.
I’m glad you squealed on that pet shop.
I have lots of somethings in my eyes now.
I refuse to believe it is not true.
Ruffian, the hardest thing we do as pet owners is to know when to say goodbye. Fear not, your Angel had a wonderful life, and she left surrounded by love and peace.
She was beautiful. And you did the kindest thing.
Beautiful eulogy, Ruffian.
It sounds Angel had an angel of her own. Godspeed, pup.
I’m so sorry. She was extremely beautiful.
You did the right thing but that never makes it easier.
I’m so sorry, knowing you did the right thing doesn’t make it any less painful.
She was a beautiful dog.
Ugh–the reminders of her are killer. There’s still a half-used can of food (with a sheltie on the label, of course) in the fridge. There are bits of sheltie fluff still on the house floors. I went to the salon today, and a client that came in the same time I was there was named Angel. I went to the grocery to pick up a few items and passed the pet aisle, where a display of sale items had a large picture of a sheltie on it. I go for a walk, and a sheltie furiously barked its watchdog warning at me. All things I wouldn’t have noticed before, but man I notice them now.
And then of course, there’s the half-full bag of dog food, the recently refilled doggie treat jar, the half-used doses of Advantage, the food dishes, the doggie shampoo, the crate, the bedding, the EVERYthing that still says, “Hey, a dog lives here.” DeathLlama will be taking a bunch of it to work tomorrow to give to a buddy. Meanwhile–what do we do with all of her prescriptions?
Thank you all, again, for your kind words. It’s good to have fellow animal lovers around. TroubleAgain, missbunny, Taters…she really was a pretty girl, wasn’t she? 
Thank you. The youthful pic of her is now my laptop’s wallpaper.
elelle–your description of the “biggest difference,” simply yet eloquenty stated, really touched me last night when I was too choked up to say more than “It’s over” here. Thank you.
ivylass, I don’t really know what happens to any of us, human or otherwise, once our time on Earth is done…but I do hope there is something for all of us, and that I will see that tricolor blur with the flagging tail once more. And yes, goodbye is the hardest thing–and an ending surrounded by love is what she deserved. What a great dog.
You might see if your vet’s office could take the partially used prescriptions and give them to someone else who’s having financial difficulties. I don’t know if the same restrictions apply to veterinary prescriptions as human ones, but it might be a way to extend Angel’s love to someone else who needs it.
She was (and will always be) a beautiful girl!
There’s not a lot I can add, but, you know, spare hug over here if you need it or anything.
snugs tight, and goes off to throw ball for dog
I’m so sorry. There just aren’t words. Don’t be afraid to lean on your friends, Dopers or otherwise.
I lost my girl, Zeke, nearly five years ago, and I still sometimes wake up to find my hand petting the air where her head would have been as she stood by the bed.
On a practical note: You mentioned what to do with her unused medications. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, but I recall that you shouldn’t throw them in the trash or flush them. Maybe ask the vet?