My dog’s been having severe hip and throat trouble for a few months now, and last week (at the ripe old age of nine) had a severe allergic reaction to something, possibly a bee sting, that swelled her head and neck up like a water balloon. Then Saturday we had an emergency trip to the all-night vet, during which they had to drain about a liter of fluid from her chest cavity to let her breathe. At that point I decided it was time. I’ve watched too many dogs outlive their happiness, into the years when they have no fun, enjoy nothing, and exist only because their heart won’t stop pumping. I didn’t want to see Zeke go into the same twilight.
So today was the day. My friend LeRoy, who’s known her since the day we got her, in 1994, came with me to the vet. The alternatives were explained to me, and I signed a consent form for euthanasia.
Did we want to take the body with us or have them dispose of it? Have them dispose of it.
Did we want to be present at the injection? Very much so.
Zeke was holding up like a trooper at this point (considering how nervous the vet’s office always makes her), but when the vet and a tech came into the room, she knew–before I did–that this was it. She went into a corner and refused to come out. We pulled her out, and LeRoy and I held her head and patted her and cooed to her as the vet pulled out a syringe the size of a roll of quarters. She explained that this was essentially going to be a massive overdose of anesthesia to the dog.
Did we want some time alone with her to say goodbye? No, we’ve said goodbye; let’s do this.
I took the dog’s collar off. The vet put the syringe into Zeke’s leg. I noticed that there were a few air bubbles in it. She slowly pushed the plunger all the way in.
It was astonishingly quick. Zeke was sitting up on her front paws as we patted her and soothed her, and about ten seconds after the plunger came out, she exhaled softly and went completely limp, and we lowered her gently to the floor. The vet checked her with a stethoscope and said, “She’s gone.”
We patted her furry head one more time. The vet was kind enough to let us out the back door, so as not to have to face the people in the waiting room. We stood in the parking lot and sobbed like babies for a few minutes.
It was quick, painless, and peaceful. We should all be so lucky. R.I.P. Zeke.
