What do you do when you know for sure it’s the last day? Some of it, for sure, is what you’ve been doing for months. At five in the morning, you hope the dog you’ve nursed those months hasn’t soiled the bed and that you can get him out in time. This morning happened to be an epic fail, but some mornings you make it. But after that—after the dog goes back to sleep and you can’t—you go to Starbucks and get him a pup cup. That follows the extra breakfast you already gave him, and the treats you’ve been handing out with ridiculous frequency since you gave up on the idea of even dozing. You get down on the floor by his bed and you hug him. No, he doesn’t particularly appreciate that; unlike your last Lab, this one’s not a hugger, but this hug’s for you, and so are the kisses you plant on his face between telling him how much you love him over and over. He clearly thinks you’ve gone over the edge, but is thrilled by your tumble into insanity since each kiss comes with another big treat.
You get a text from a vet who was surely created out of equal parts skill and kindness, the one who’s taken care of him through the entire terrible spinal injury, the hospitalizations, the “crate rest” for 8 weeks, the one who taught you how to do his physical therapy at home. The vet who rejoiced when your dog was able to stand alone, to walk with a wonky gait, and, this summer, finally swim in the wide, singing creek in our nearby forest. You sent him and his staff videos, and they never failed to respond, cheering him on. The text from him says he’ll take care of your beloved dog on his day off, when the clinic is closed for the holiday. You know it’s pure kindness.
The last month or two the nerve damage from the spinal cord injury has reasserted itself. You see your dog struggle more and more. You hear how he starts panting at the beginning of walks that are shorter and shorter. And you start with the questions: is it time? Not yet. Not yet, you say.
He falls more and can’t get to his feet without help. He can’t do stairs at all anymore. Then suddenly he can’t really help by getting his front legs into the car while you lift his back end. It’s harder and harder to lift him. He’s no Great Dane, but he’s not a Yorkie either. He’s your beloved Lab. He’s Scout, who loved to run, to jump, to play, to retrieve and retrieve and retrieve. Tennis ball Scout. Guard dog Scout.
Six or eight weeks ago there’s a skin infection that seems to be allergy. You treat it. You’re hopeful. It comes back with a vengeance and spreads. You find big clumps of his hair all over the house. It’s apparently not an allergy, the vet says. Could be his immune system breaking down, could be cancer, could be mange. Only way to know is testing. Testing is invasive.
His back legs give out and he can’t get up without help. You agonize. You ask for whom are we doing this?
It’s time.
Today, you take him to the woods and you let him sniff and sniff. He drops his ball every couple of steps, and you pick it up and give it back to him. You encourage him into the wide, singing creek he loves and you soak your shoes to get him back out when he falls there.
You prepare another bowlful of meat and cheese and hand feed morsel by morsel while you lie by his bed on the floor where he rests, and you love him. And you know. It’s time.
One last time. Good boy, good boy, you whisper, and stroke his ears. Good boy. Good bye. Good dog.
It was time.
Thank you from our hearts to those of you who have shared this journey with us.
(for Alan)
