Saying Goodbye
Last night, I held the flashlight for my husband while he dug a grave for our dear dog. This morning, we’re taking her to the vet to be put to sleep. She was diagnosed with cancer several months ago, and although she is still “functional,” she fights for every breath. We doctor her food in every way we know how to make it tempting, but she is wasting away. And her face, which has always worn a natural smile, simply looks exhausted now. Little wonder. She spends the whole night lying down in various positions and places — only to get back up immediately and continue searching for the increasingly elusive place of comfort.
Of all the things she needs, the one thing we can give her is sleep.
There are no small deaths — not where love is involved. Katie has been in our lives through 14 exciting years. She was my husband’s and my “practice child” before any young humans came along, and she is everywhere in our photo albums: supervising the removal of the trees in our front yard when we first bought our house; standing sentinel over the cradle that holds our tiny first child; listening to bedtime stories; “helping” with shoveling snow and mowing grass. My oldest daughter’s first word was “Katie.” She’s visited grandparents; romped in the woods; chased countless frisbies. She is fully a member of the family, unfailingly affectionate and trusting, bred to be a champion but surrendering graciously to being simply a family pet.
I wonder if I over-spiritualize this. I’ve prayed for Katie a lot — for healing and, with equal persistence, for natural, quiet death in her sleep. She’s held on longer than the minimal estimate the veterinarian gave us, but in the end here we are, having to make the difficult decision to intervene. This is one of those experiences of having prayed earnestly for something, but the results are… inconclusive.
I’m not sure why things are working out this way. But in our yearning to show love and mercy to Katie, it’s not God that’s the enemy; it’s death. Whether we refuse to intervene and wait for her to go naturally, or put her suffering to a stop now, we face heartbreak. No matter how our prayers are answered.
Farewell, Dog of Dogs. We’ve loved you so much. Our one consolation is that you know it.
Other than that, it’s all sadness.
9 Comments
Ruth
Oh, Janet, I’m so sorry. I’m crying as I read this. You’ve expressed so well what Katie means to your family. You are right: “There are no small deaths – not where love is involved.”
Mitch Teemley
Touching words for anyone who’s ever been loved by an animal. Which is to say, anyone who’s alive. Thank you for sharing this with us, Janet.
GretchenJoanna
Oh, how sad! You did the right thing, returning her love and devotion and not wanting her to suffer. I haven’t had a dog to lose, and I know having a cat is not at all the same, but the cats we lost were so exceptional, like your Katie, it made losing them all the more depressing, because we know not all pets are so satisfying as “family members,” and there is no replacing a beloved pet in any case.
Barbara H.
I’m so sorry. Praying for grace and comfort for you all.
Jeane
So sad for your loss. Pets can be so dear to us- I cried when I got a phone call in college that my cat had died- the one I’d had since nine years old! I am sure Katie knew how much she was loved, and it is a hard but good choice, to ease her pain and know when to let go. I feel for your family.
Janet
Thank you for the kind comments. She went very peacefully… We feel it was the right choice at the right time. But it’s a great loss for our family.
Shannon
My heart breaks for you and your family. Sweet girl, she is at rest now.
DebD
how very sad for you all. I’m so sorry that today had to come. Many cyber hugs.
Alice@Supratentorial
So sorry, Janet. I had to make the same choice a few years ago for one of our cats and I remember feeling that although it was such a terrible choice to have to make at the same time it was a privilege in a way to be there with her at the end and to know that I was taking some of her pain away. I hope that doesn’t sound dismissive of how painful and hard I’m sure this was for you and your family.