It was time . . . to get him weighed. I wanted to believe my 14-year-old golden retriever was gaining weight despite his failing kidneys. I wanted hope. I wanted to believe that everything I was doing could delay the inevitable. I wanted some measure of his current condition, and weight was it.
My dog had weighed from 53.5 to 55 pounds most of his life. He was never fat. I worked hard to keep him slender because I knew that was best for his health and longevity. But he had been steadily losing weight since his surgery a year before, and his inappetence (loss of desire to eat) had gotten worse and worse. I was spoon-feeding him kidney-friendly kibble soaked into gruel, several spoonfuls at a time, throughout the day; more than a few bites at once and he would throw it up.
I kept telling myself he felt a bit less bony, that he was a bit heavier when I boosted him up onto the bed. I knew there was no cure, no medication, no surgery that would save his life, but I hoped I could prolong it by giving him the nutrition he needed to function as fully as possible for as long as possible.
I also wanted practice—practice for the inevitable day when we would walk into the veterinary clinic together and I would walk out alone. Today was that day—‘weigh’ day. I hadn’t planned it. I snuck up on myself. One morning I said, “Let’s do it today.” I gave him an overall brushing, walked him down the stairs, and put on his leash and collar. That perked him up! An outing . . . in the car!
We arrived at the clinic with perfect timing. It was lunch hour, and all the veterinarians were out. There were no other pets in the lobby, aside from the clinic cat, and only two staffers on duty. I checked inside first, asked if I could weigh him, and we were welcomed. I told the staffers on duty to appreciate this visit because the next time would not be a happy one.
My dog walked in with his tail wagging. The clinic was, to him, a familiar and good place. He’d been coming there since he was a puppy. He didn’t even hold a grudge about the toe amputation of a year before, or the post-procedure follow-ups. He felt safe and glad to be there. He walked onto the scales cooperatively and stood, tail wagging, as we got an accurate reading.
Forty-four and a half pounds.
I asked the staffers to make sure his weight was noted on his record.
What are your choices when you know your pet is going to die?
I think the first choice should be made from the day you bring your new pet home: you decide you will never let your pet suffer if there’s anything you can do to prevent it. That resolution alone answers so many questions as your pet grows up and ages—how to manage, train, and live with him or her, for example.
Don’t wait to discuss end-of-life issues with your family, with your friends. It’s never easy to make decisions when everyone is stressed, worried, concerned, or terrified. Decide before you have to. Decide what you think is best for your pet, for your family, early in the game. Make sure that everyone agrees; achieve consensus while you have the time. Talk with children about the subject in terms that they can understand, considering their age and maturity. Don’t overwhelm them, don’t make them fearful, but make sure they know that pets simply don’t live as long as people do.
When the time comes, how will you end your pet’s suffering?
You have choices. One choice is to let the pet live out whatever life he or she has left without interference, to wait for a natural passing. That choice might well be appropriate if your pet is not suffering. Ask any veterinarian: it’s a question of quality of life. You can ensure that your pet’s quality of life will not deteriorate into suffering? Your pet is cared for in any way it needs, including carrying it outside to eliminate, diapering it, cleaning it up constantly? Your pet is not in pain or anxious? Good.
Hospice care for terminally ill pets is a demanding, heart-wrenching commitment. Should you decide to make that commitment, you would be very wise not to do it on your own. You will need support and sympathy. Friends and family should be included in your hospice plan. You must remember to care for yourself as you care for your pet. It will do your pet no good if you end up sick or demoralized.
Enlist the help, of course, of your veterinarian. Medications are available now that can alleviate many of the physical and mental issues that can affect pets at the ends of their lives. Enlist the help, too, of your own physician or mental health professional. There may be medications that will help you through this time as well. Friends with similar experiences may also have some good suggestions for you and your family. Don’t be reluctant to ask for ideas on how best to provide care!
When you’re sure you’ve done everything you can, and your pet is suffering, what will you do?
Remember, you’ve already made some basic decisions . . . including no suffering. I strongly encourage you to go further than just basic decisions—again, long before the time comes. Talk with your veterinarian about what services that clinic provides, not only for ending your pet’s suffering, but for the inevitable decision about (yes, I have to say it) what to do with your pet’s dead body.
I have had pets most of my life—cats, in particular—and dogs since 1980. In that time, not one of my pets has died on its own of old age. Even my two cats who each lived to the age of 21 had to be, at the end, euthanized to stop their suffering. I can say without hesitation that euthanasia has always been the most humane and loving choice that I could have made.
Talk to your veterinarian when your pet is young and healthy. Ask how your veterinarian feels about euthanasia. Discuss how it is done. Find out if your veterinarian, as many vets do today, offers to euthanize outside of the clinic, like in your home. That’s an option that many pet owners don’t even know exists.If they did, it’s one that many would choose. For many pets, a death at home, surrounded by friends, surrounded by family, is the best choice possible.
My personal choice has always been to have my pets euthanized at my veterinarian’s clinic. Should you decide that at-home passing is your choice, discuss that subject with your veterinarian well ahead of time. Then, as you get closer to that day, keep in touch with your vet to make absolutely sure that, when the time comes, your vet will be available. Discuss, too, what will happen to your pet’s body afterward. Yes, it’s important.
What are your choices for what happens afterward?
You have options. Your first source of information is your veterinary clinic. Find out what services they offer to coordinate with local “pet memorial” businesses—companies that offer cremation and burials. Should you choose to have your pet’s body cremated, you’ll have another choice: mass cremation (cremation with other pets; no ashes for you) or individual cremation (cremation alone, with ashes in a memorial container for you). Individual cremation is much more expensive, but it’s a choice that many pet owners make, even those who really can’t afford it, because . . . you can.
Burial in a pet memorial garden may also be available. Burial on your own property may not, in fact, be legal in your community (check the local laws), but home burials in rural areas are traditional. Again, these are choices to make long before the time comes. Ceremony is important, so whatever your choices about cremation or burial, your family and your pet’s friends may be well served by some sort of official closure—lighting candles or getting together to remember your pet’s life.
Donations can also be made in your pet’s name to many worthwhile charities, including those who help others to deal with end-of-life care for their pets. In my community, contributions are often made in memory of a pet to nonprofit animal shelters or specific animal rescues. Consider what organizations your pet might have wanted to support and suggest those to your friends.
I took my dog home that day after weighing him at the clinic.
I knew I was doing everything I could, and he was no better.
I spent those last few days holding him close and telling him how much I loved him. His cat—I say that because, at the time, she made it very clear she was his cat—almost never left his side. He had a bad weekend, a very bad weekend. He was so tired. I called the clinic on Monday.
I made an appointment for Thursday, but he had a bad night on Tuesday. Wednesday morning, I called the clinic to ask if there was any way we could get in before the Thursday appointment. My veterinarian was going into morning surgeries, but the staffer asked me to wait while she checked with him. She called me back in a few minutes. My veterinarian would see us when surgeries were done.
My dog walked into the clinic that morning again wagging his tail.
The metal exam table was covered with a cozy blanket. I lifted him up and helped him to lie down comfortably. I took off his collar and leash. My veterinarian shaved a small spot on my dog’s foreleg. He said, “I want to remind you that sometimes they react . . . ” That did not happen.
With my arms around him, my dog quietly stopped living. “I love you, Winston. Go in peace,” was all that I could say.
