The vet spoke some other words but those were the ones that continued ringing in my ears. A few
others added to the echo. Tumor. Ultrasound. Malignant. Liver. Chemo useless. I stared back at him
trying to think of what I should ask, what I should say. What I should do. I looked to my 15-year-old
pointer mix Sophie, who was standing next to me, gazing about the exam room with her near-blind eyes. Her sides were sunken in, ribs jutting out, beginning to resemble those poor neglected animals in the ASCPA commercials.
She had been refusing to eat for weeks. She’d stopped eating dog food altogether. Wouldn’t touch any brand. Not the expensive, premium, all-natural, grain-free, wild buffalo and geese (or whatever), and not the cheap, might-as-well-be-McDonald’s, doggie junk food equivalents. We’d tried desperately to find something appetizing to her. We cooked chicken breasts, made meatloaf, bought cans of tuna, even offered her pizza and other table scraps she’d never been allowed to have for the majority of her life. She’d perhaps nibble some, but quit after a few bites. Occasionally she’d eat a respectable amount, enough to give us hope we had found something to please her aging palate. It would last a few days at most. Sooner or later, we’d present it to her and she’d turn away again. She was losing weight. She didn’t look healthy anymore.
I lived in partial denial, thinking that I just needed to find the right food for her. If I could do that, all
would be well again. Finally, after several days of her eating hardly anything, we went to see the vet.
We had just been to the vet two months prior. We had a full senior blood panel done. The results said all her internal organs were working not just fine, but great. Like those of a much younger animal. So I wasn’t overly worried. The refusal to eat was concerning, but I was sure the vet could advise us how to solve it. We’d go home with our solution in hand, buy whatever we needed, take whatever medication warranted and have Sophie back on track to an enjoyable old age.
When the vet started speaking about the tumor he just saw on the ultrasound and how these things
come on quickly and often don’t show up in the blood work, I felt the room tilt sideways for a moment. I listened, but only registered about half of what he said. All that sank in was that Sophie was not going to get better. Still, I heard myself asking, my voice wavering and my chest tightening, “So is she in pain? How do I know when it’s time?”
The vet breathed in slowly, paused and gave me a pitying look. With the knowing sigh of someone who’d faced many a pet owner unable to face the truth, he gently said “It’s her time.” I swallowed all the protesting words wanting to spill forth. I nodded slightly. “Is there anyone you need to call?” he asked. I said I needed to call my husband, Robert, my voice beginning to crack. The vet and the tech told me to take all the time I needed. He instructed me to just knock on the door leading to the lab area when we were ready.
As soon as they left the room, I dropped to my knees beside Sophie and hugged her. The tears came instantly. My shoulders shook as I choked back the sobs and grabbed my phone. I noticed the battery was low as I called Robert. It rang until voice mail picked up. My stepson was having a yard sale at our house that morning in an effort to raise money for a camp he wanted to attend. I knew it was quite likely Robert was out in the yard without his phone. I dialed again. Voice mail. Once more. Voice mail again. A tech came in with a blanket and made a bed for Sophie on the floor. I sat on the floor with her, petting her side and holding her head in my lap. I tried dialing again to no avail. The phone alerted me that my battery was down to five percent power. Finally, I called one of Robert’s sisters who was visiting and staying at a hotel near our house. She answered and immediately recognized that something was wrong. I managed to tell her what the vet had said and that I couldn’t reach Robert. I needed her to go to the house and tell him to come to the vet’s office.
I continued trying to call Robert nearly every 60 seconds, getting voice mail each time. In between
attempts, I cradled Sophie’s head and cried harder than I could recall in recent memory. Finally, my
phone buzzed with a text saying “I am on my way.” I dropped the phone in relief. Sophie was resting
comfortably, though shivering some. I told myself it was because of the air conditioning, not because
she was scared or knew what was to come. The tech checked in on us. I asked for another blanket to cover her and warm her up. At last, I could hear Robert’s voice outside asking which room we were in. It had been hour since my heart began to break.
Robert entered and bent to hug me. I broke down against his shoulder, leaning on his strength. I tried
to convey the situation as the vet had laid it out. Bottom line, Sophie would not get better than she is
right now. She would slowly starve herself to death. It was up to us to help her avoid a slow, painful and cruel death. I told him they said to knock on the door when we were ready. “I need you to do it,” I said. “I can’t knock on that door.” As I looked at the sweet face lying in my lap and stroked her silky ears, I couldn’t fathom how one decided it was time. How do I not sit here with her for another minute? For another hour? How do I not take her home and give her one more day? One more pat on the head. One more hug around the neck before I ask the vet to take her away from this world.
Robert sat with me for a bit, holding my hand and letting me cry. Finally, he quietly asked if I was ready. I nodded silently in response. He knocked on the door, then opened it slightly to catch a tech’s attention. He nodded and said we were ready. After a moment, the vet came back in with a syringe. He said it was just a sedative. He would administer that, let it take effect for a bit and then be back with the final dose. Sophie barely moved when he gave her the first shot. Her shivering quickly ceased and she became completely relaxed in my lap. I put my hand on her side to ensure she was still breathing. A few minutes later, the vet returned.
He crouched down on the floor beside us and met my red eyes. I don’t even remember if he actually
said the words, but I knew he was asking if I was ready. Once again, I gave the slightest of nods and
closed my eyes as he prepared to give Sophie her last shot. As he injected the solution, I continued to stroke her head and side. I whispered over and over that she was a good dog, a sweet dog, the best dog. I said I loved her, and I was so sorry to let her go. That I would miss her so very much. Tears dripped from my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to remove a hand from Sophie’s head or side to wipe them away. The vet listened to Sophie’s heart until the last beat. When he removed the stethoscope, I asked if she was gone, and he said yes.
Again, the vet said to take as much time as we needed in the room with her. We had signed papers to have her cremated and the ashes returned to us. They would care for her body after we left. I sat with her head in my lap a while longer, with Robert’s hand on my shoulder as I cried some more. Taking a deep breath, I willed myself to move. I rolled up the end of the blanket to create a pillow for Sophie’s head and positioned her paws in her familiar sleeping position. She looked so peaceful, like she truly was resting at last, the ravages of old age no longer troubling her. All her aches and pains, her blindness and deafness, her nightly incontinence, her arthritis that made it impossible to manage stairs, her back leg weakness, all of it was over. Still, leaving her behind, no matter how peaceful-looking, was a heartache almost too much to bear.
Sophie was an amazing dog. She drove me crazy so often. She was willful and stubborn. She had
selective deafness and could ignore the entire world if she had caught the scent of something
interesting to follow. She loved the water and swimming. She would chase tennis balls for hours and
preferred people to other dogs. She had her own queen-sized bed to sleep on until she could no longer jump up on it. She was spoiled rotten, but she loved everyone. She was goofy and funny and full of life. I was lucky to have her for more than 15 years. She taught me so much about taking care of another creature. I’ll always love her and treasure our amazing time together.
