If Only

 

She won’t eat, won’t drink, can barely stand let alone walk and breathing is a struggle. I gather her up and take her to the emergency clinic but in my heart, I know it’s a lost cause. She’s too sick to be saved and I think Michael knows it but can’t bring himself to face it yet. After a night in intensive care, she’s no better and it’s clear that the only kind thing is to end her suffering and let her go.

As dogs go, she was never much of a prize. She was anti-social, defiant, violently unpredictable, moody, and would snarl and bite without the slightest provocation. She despised the other dogs and would curl her lip and bare her teeth if they even passed by her. I’ve never known a more ill tempered or nasty little animal and yet, we loved her sorry, little ornery ass dearly. It doesn’t make much sense but it happens that way sometimes, just like with our own kind. I wonder if we are not, by nature, fixers - of junkies and broken people and recalcitrant, bad tempered little dogs. Love is never, ever enough but we don’t seem to be able to let go of the hope.

And so on a chilly, gray skied Sunday afternoon in October, Michael and I meet at the emergency clinic. He signs the euthanasia release, pays the balance of the bill, and we are escorted into an exam room. The little dog is brought in on a mobile stretcher for a final goodbye. And then, the moment she sees us, she struggles a little bit, raises herself to a sitting position, wags her tail and looks directly at Michael with those huge brown eyes and he immediately craters, comes apart at the seams and begins choking and sobbing and saying he can’t do it.

“We’re taking her home,” he manages to tell the vet tech, “I need to see the doctor.”

“She’s been in intensive care for the last 24 hours,” I tell him quietly, “If you take her home, she isn’t…..”

He picks her up, cradles her against his chest and shakes his head. “We’re taking her home,” he repeats shakily, “I’m not going to kill her.”

“Michael,” I say gently, “She’s suffering and she isn’t going to get better.”

“I’m not going to kill her,” he says again and there’s an edge of defiance through the tears.

I’ve known the man for a very long time and I recognize when to give up. I disagree with his decision but it’s his to make and as painful as it is, I understand. The young vet comes in and talks to us about multi-organ failure and how treating her kidneys hurts her heart and treating her heart compromises her kidneys and everything damages her liver. He stresses, as kindly as I’ve even seen it put, that she won’t recover but he also openly admits that she could take a turn for the worse in intensive care as easily as she could at home.

“It’s a question of trying to treat her the best we can without making one thing or another worse,” he says, “She’s a tough cookie but this is a very tough balancing act. We are all so sorry we couldn’t send her home healthy and happy.”

They remove her IV, wrap her up in a towel and we carry her to the car. Once back at the house, we make her a bed of pillows and cover her with a fleece blanket. When the other dogs approach her, she manages a weak but very clear growl then closes her eyes and goes to sleep without so much as a whimper.

“If only she hadn’t sat up and looked right at me….” Michael says helplessly, “Maybe I could have…..”

If only.

That was on Sunday. On Monday, we took her back to her regular vet and heard the same things, that there was no magic cure, that we were doing everything that could be done. We brought her home and about an hour later, she stretched out on her side, took one last breath and peacefully died. Rest in peace, little girl.