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Massive dose of anaesthetic
By ella | January 10, 2007
The end, when it came, came quickly.
Brin’s appetite waned after the surgery but she ate enough now and then to survive another day. Sometimes she would eat some bread, sometimes a bit of ham, other times I sat with her as she refused everything, clearly feeling too sick. Then a bit later she would eat a bit more, flooding me with relief that her time had not come. She continued to go out into the garden, occasionally barking at a passing bird or squirrel, reminding them that she might be dying but this was still her territory. She ventured into the fields, not going far, sometimes content to sit next to me in the warm winter sun as we watched for deer and pheasant. On Monday she seemed better than ever, eating the spaghetti bolognese I cooked for supper. But on Tuesday she was looking unsteady on her feet. At lunchtime she came to find me in the playroom, a place she usually avoided because of the risk of being trampled underfoot by too many rowdy children. She swayed when she sat in her basket, a sign that the disease was starting to affect her brain. When she came in a second time I could see she was frightened by what was happening to her. I called Matthew home and sat with her as she lay quietly in her basket.
When we reached the vets Matthew carried her in and lay her on her favourite blanket. She was calm. I held her head and reassured her, whispering to her, as the injection was given. It took only seconds.
In some ways that was the hardest thing. There was no ’sleepiness’, just there one minute, gone the next. I had imagined she would close her eyes as if falling asleep and then gradually stop breathing, even though the vet had told me it would only take a few seconds. Instead her head relaxed into my hands with her eyes open just the way she had been looking at me as the anaesthetic was administered. I keep replaying it in my mind, a form of shock, I suppose, at seeing her die.
Part of me also feels such shock at having to choose to end her life even though her deteriorating condition effectively made that decision for me. It was my last responsibility to a dog that had given such love and companionship. But you find the courage to perform this last duty, you carry it out and then you leave and the world continues as if nothing has happened. Nobody really cares how much you cared about your dog. It was just a dog, after all.
Her death has brought a deep and lonely grief. She was my first ‘baby’. I loved her, cared for her, looked after her, cut knots out of her ears over and over and then over again, I stroked her soft fur, comforted her when she was in pain, sat with her when she was frightened. In turn she was everything you could hope for from a dog. But she died too young - she should have had another five or six years with us - and to have had such a lovely dog for only such a short time seems so unfair and I am finding that hard to accept. Everywhere in the house there are reminders of her and one by one I am removing them, unwillingly because it feels disloyal, as if I don’t want any part of her here anymore.
She died seven weeks, almost to the minute, she showed the first signs that anything was wrong. For the first five of those we didn’t know she was dying. For the last two weeks of those she was very poorly, living on borrowed time. I didn’t get a last chance to video or photograph her running in the fields, draped across the bottom stair, chasing her sister up and down the hallway, something I really regret. If I’d known she was dying I would have walked for hours with her, given her her favourite foods, spent more time with her. I wish I’d known.
As we left the vet’s office I turned to him and whispered reduntantly, ‘take care of her.’ My little dog, who didn’t stay with me nearly long enough.
Gun Dog
The fields here go on and on
the sun is warm, the wheat is long
I run and run and chase the birds
and catch your trail of distant words
Children shout and chase around,
their laughter just a drifting sound
The pheasant just a bit less fast
I think of all I’ve loved that’s passed
For now your soft hand strokes my head
and here I wait for you instead
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Categories: Dog Days
19 Comments
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Oh Ella I am so so sorry. I have been checking back every day hoping that this wouldn’t be your next post. Thinking of you and wishing I could say something that would be of comfort.
I’m so sorry Ella for your loss.
I completely understand what you are going through. I lost my dog a few months ago and I still think about him every day. Nobody seemed to understand how I felt and implied that I was overreacting about his death. It gets easier in that I am less tearful but I still miss him so much.
I’m sorry you feel that it is a lonely grief. I think anyone who has owned a dog would understand what you are going through especially if their dog dies young. Being present when your dog dies is tremendously hard but you can gain comfort knowing that she will have been calm and not frightened because you were there.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I still vividly remember with each of our two dogs passed away when I was a teenager.
When my parents dog died they both cried. Until your own dog dies I don’t think anyone appreciates how difficult it can be and what a hole their death leaves in the family dynamic. Thinking of you and wishing you all the best.
I’m sorry for your loss. I don’t have any pets but I know this must be a very difficult time.
I am so very sorry. (tears running down my face, too…)
Sorry about your dog. She was so beautiful.
I’m crying as I read this Ella and I am so very sorry that Brin reached the end. It sounds like she had a wonderful last few days surrounded by love and care.
I have a spaniel and I would be devastated to go through something like this with him.
The poem was very poignant.
Sorry for your loss.
Big hug for you.
Very sorry about Brin Ella. Hope you’ll be OK.
Ella, I’m so sorry for your loss, and for your feeling that it is a lonely grief.
I’m so sorry. It is hard to lose a beloved friend, even the canine variety. ((((HUGS)))) to you from me.
I am so sorry - I don’t have a dog, but I can try to imagine how hard this time must be.
Oh, Ella, I am so sorry. I went through almost this exact same thing two years ago and it was gut wrenching. I still miss my “first baby” almost every day.
That poem is just lovely.
You will be in my thoughts.
Ella, I’m so sorry for your loss.