The penultimate day of his life was what I had come to think of as one of the "good" days. Yes, he still slept the vast majority of the time. There was still pain when he ate, and occasional blood in his saliva. He wobbled when he walked and had little interest in going farther than necessary. But he was still enthusiastic to see us, and on that day he wagged his tail more than on other days in his decline. He begged for his supper and, especially, for the London broil I grilled for dinner.
Such improvements, though, served only to underscore how precipitous his decline had been. Even a few weeks ago, he would have been in our faces trying to get food. Now, with the exception of the beef, even the most perfunctory efforts to beg were too much. I felt like we had reached a tipping point, and that having passed it, having seen that he no longer took joy in the things he had loved all his life, that it might be time to let my puppy go.
The final day confirmed it. Though he ate his breakfast with relative gusto, and even managed to scale the couch one last time, most of the day was spent laying under my desk, unmoving for hours, the scared look that had become so common in his eyes when he was awake. His morning walk was painful to watch as he wobbled and occasionally stumbled, his tail tucked between his legs. A call to the vet was the help I needed. She told me that though it would not, based on my description, be inhumane to keep him through the weekend, neither would it be inhumane to euthanize him. I pondered my position and the thought of putting him through more days of pain just so those of us who love him could have a few more days of his company was too much to bear.
I scheduled his euthanasia for 6:40 that evening.
After I made the phone call I broke down, my sadness increased by the evident concern in Grendel's eyes as he stirred from his slumber and looked up at me. He didn't rise, but his tail twitched as I petted him, and once more I was struck by how he tried to comfort me as he was able. As I went about the remainder of the day, there was a clock counting down in my head to 5:40, when I was to give him the overdose of Valium, in the expectation that it would knock him out so that I could take him to the vet unawares.
I brought my wife home from work about two hours prior to that, and we spent the time struggling to choke back the tears and to share as much love as we could. My decision was made harder by the fact that, upon our arrival, Grendel had risen to greet us with wags, and nuzzles, and kisses. But very soon he was prone again. His enthusiasm was briefly roused at dinner, when I gave him his normal pain pills, and then again when I gave him the ten doses of Valium, wrapped in pieces of the London broil from the night before. I'll always feel a little guilty for wrapping what was essentially his death in a tasty treat, but it seemed a good way to ensure delivery and he very much enjoyed the beef.
Grendel very quickly became woozy and lay down on the floor. We joined him and petted him, occasionally receiving more nuzzles, as we waited for him to sleep. But he wouldn't. Though very clearly affected by the drugs he simply would not fall asleep. Forty minutes after the drugs were administered, when, in order to make the appointment on time, I should have left, Grendel tried to stand up. After several attempts, it was clear that he was going to hurt himself, so when his front legs were fully extended, I lifted his backside and for a second he stood again, indomitable. His eyes were glassy and if I had let him go he would have fallen, but Grendel had again shown us his uncanny strength.
Realizing that though he was not asleep, neither did he seem anxious, and hoping he would fall asleep during the half-hour ride, I put Grendel in the back seat of my car and set off for the vet. Since he didn't seem concerned, I didn't feel so bad that this part of my plan had gone awry, but as I drove all I wished for was that he would sleep. Instead, about three quarters of the way there, I was surprised by the feel of a cold, wet nose on my elbow. It was still not clear how aware he was, but he had maneuvered himself into one of his customary travel positions, his backside on the back seat and his head on the armrest. I was devastated and proud at the same time.
When I arrived at the vet, she came out to my car to administer a sedative. I spent the next twenty minutes in the doorway of my car, stroking his head and whispering to him as he went to sleep. When his eyes had rolled mostly back into his head, I cradled him as gently as I could in my arms and carried my friend for the final steps.
Whenever in the past I had picked him up, he had always resisted, and this resistance in some ways made carrying him easier. This time he was simply weight, still breathing, but completely relaxed.
I carried him into an examination room, the same room in which he had had his first checkup a dozen years before, the same room in which we had mapped out options to handle his dysplasia, the same room in which countless digestive tract and ear infections had been treated, and I set him on the table. The vet then shaved a patch of hair from his left forepaw, attached a tourniquet to raise a vein, and inserted a needle into it. First she injected saline, and then the lethal drug.
Once the tech removed the tourniquet, the vet touched a stethoscope to his chest while I stood there, stroking Grendel's muzzle and wishing him farewell and thanking him for being. Very quickly--within seconds I would say--she put away the stethoscope. Grendel yawned, the body expelling air still in the lungs, and he was gone. As I stroked his chest, I felt a flutter beneath the skin, residual electrical activity, a flutter that lasted perhaps three seconds and then stopped.
They left me then, alone with the remains of my dog so that I could weep for my loss. Spent, I collapsed against the wall and stroked his body until I could stand to leave.
I did the very best I could by him, though in the end all I could do was be there with him and hope that it was painless and free of anxiety. I miss him terribly. The first night was the worst, as at every turn there was some reminder of him. At the sight of his empty bed, the air rushed from my chest as though someone had stomped on it.
Grendel was the best of dogs, and I was obscenely lucky to have had him. I miss his presence under my desk as I write this. I miss the sound of his snoring. I miss his spotted tongue and his cold, wet nose. I miss the unusual softness of his fur under my fingertips. I miss the companion to whom I could talk without fear of interruption or judgment. I miss the one being to whom I was always completely honest.
The fear and pain are gone, leaving the grief of those he loved and who loved him--and to know him was to love him. We are all better for that love, the world a slightly crueler place without it.
1 comment:
Love to you, my friend.
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