Today was one of those mornings, but cruelly, there was no joy in it. Today, in what was otherwise one of the prettiest, warmest days of the young spring, we were called upon to be executioner-by-proxy.
Daisy, the border collie/Aussie shepherd mix we rescued from extermination just under two years ago, left us today. Six weeks or so ago, we noticed her appetite was substantially reduced. Since we never knew exactly how old she was, we presumed that her increased difficulty climbing stairs and smaller appetite were a function of age. Over the last week and a half, she her breathing became labored. It got to the point this weekend that it was difficult to sleep in the same room with her because her wheezing was so loud. She was obviously in distress, because she could never get relief from the gasping.
We took her to the local vet yesterday. The doctor showed me an x-ray of a healthy dog, in which you could see the ribs, heart and lungs. He then put up Daisy's film. The organs and ribs were there, but it looked like someone had also stuffed her abdomen with cotton balls. She had the canine equivalent of breast cancer, which had spread throughout her body. It was a shock to see it. I asked if she had even a month left, and the vet said that she would eventually suffocate if we allowed her to continue to deteriorate at home. She was not in immediate pain, but was clearly in distress. He said that there are radical human treatments to deal with cancer this virulent and advanced, but those treatments do not translate well to canine use even if someone were inclined to try. He said we needed to plan on putting her down within days, not weeks.
I went to the lobby and stared out the window while the nurse put the bill together. I thought I had handled the news with clinical detachment until the nurse said she was sorry in a soft voice. Then I found I couldn't speak, and paid the bill as quickly as I could without making eye contact.
We treated Daisy to fresh cooked chicken and any other treats we could think of, and she followed us to the table for the rare treat as any other dog would (one of the few ways she ever acted like a normal dog). The treats felt hollow, though. We were giving the condemned her last meal. She didn't know it, but we did. We gave her as much love and affection as we could all evening long, even as she gasped, wheezed and could not get comfortable enough to lie down for long. All night, it was difficult to sleep because of the noise she made. Every time I woke up I hoped to hear her sleeping peacefully, to no avail. Looking back, she probably slept only a few hours total over the last several days. She also ate and drank almost nothing.
This morning, I concluded we could not continue to make her suffer. We decided we had to make the final choice sooner rather than later. The thought of her gasping through the rest of the week with little food, water or sleep was too much to contemplate, especially knowing how sick she was. She went outside when Cheryl and Michael left for school in the bright morning sun, but would not leave the rear deck. She stood still, gasping nonstop, until Cheryl came back. By then I had worked through a halting discussion with the vet's office about our options.
In the end, we elected not to stay for the final moment. I will never know if that was the best choice, but we were both so shattered that watching her take her final breath felt like something that would not add anything positive to her life or ours. Taking off her collar and tags in the vet's waiting room as the nurse waited with a temporary leash that might as well have been a noose was one of the lowest moments in my life. We walked her down the hall and left her with the nurse. We closed the door and walked outside, Cheryl leaning on me for support. That was all.
The decision to put a pet down is a terrible burden. My college roommate, who lost a much-beloved dog some years ago, wisely notes that the pain comes from not being able to explain to the pet what is happening and what you are going to do. It feels fraudulent to lead the loved member of the family at the end of a leash as always, with the knowledge that this time, she's not going to come home. It is a participation in a betrayal. Watching her suffer, knowing the cancer had overtaken her and would consume more of her before it was done, did nothing to make the decision to relieve her of that suffering any less distasteful.
Daisy was utterly devoted to Cheryl. Even in her last day, she followed Cheryl wherever she went in the house. When we prepared to get in the car for her last trip, she came outside willingly, but wandered off into the bushes in the front yard, as if she knew something was not right. She eventually went to the gate to the backyard, the same gate she went through after countless walks on her way back into the yard and the house. It was also the same gate I reinforced with metal pieces the first week we had her when she spent her first hours frantically trying to dig her way out of the yard. Now, the only thing she desired was to get back in. I so wished we could have let her.
Daisy did not particularly care for me. As with most adult males, she distrusted me and cowered when I approached her. We always assumed this behavior had its basis in whatever hell her life prior to us had been (some speculated that she had been kept in a puppy mill, and eventually ended up as a stray). Still, knowing we would deliver her to her death, and that she would no longer be a part of our family, upset me more than anything in recent memory. Such is the hold dogs have on our hearts.
She did not play, she did not bark, and she was not even particularly affectionate with most people, but she was a part of us. She always will be.
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