Dog Day Afternoon

Today I am feeling intense guilt mixed with despair. Just a few hours ago, the vet put down our dog and now he is dead. And all I can think about is why I didn’t treat him better and why he didn’t just die on his own.

Some people who know me jokingly call me Dr. Petvorkian. I was dubbed the moniker in jest shortly after my first, Lily, was born, because our dog started to become a huge pain in the ass. He was always kind and gentle with everyone, yet he someone became a heavy burden for me. I was a new mom, and taking care of a baby was hard enough, let alone adding an aging dog to the mix. Somehow, he would want to go for a walk the minute I put Lily down for a nap. Or he would get a bout of diarrhea in the hallway just as I was trying to get Lily in for dinner. So I always used to wonder aloud if it wasn’t the dog’s time to go. My husband, who had our dog since he was a few weeks old, called me Dr. Petvorkian and said I just wanted to euthanize the poor bastard to make my life easier.

In a way, my husband was right. I did want the dog to just go away. But I still loved that furry beast, and I still took the most care of him. In fact, he always came to me for a back rub or a belly scratch. He came to me when his bowl was empty and needed it filled. He came to me when he wanted to be walked. I was, in essence, his Mommy. And now I feel like I’ve abandoned my first child.

Our dog was really old, I think I mentioned – 16 and a half years, to be exact. Which is record-breaking, since he was quite a large dog at that. But over the past two weeks we have seen him go from bad to worse, and I just knew it was time. In fact, it was probably past time to put him down, but we have been hoping he would just perk up or just die of natural causes. Unfortunately, that does not happen much in the animal world. This past week he stopped eating, could barely make it out to the curb to go to the bathroom, and has been hacking up bile. So, darling husband, who loves this dog more than anything, took him to the vet. I stroked his head (the dog’s, that is) and told him he was a great dog and that I loved him. But in all honesty, I thought my husband would bring him back. I just thought the vet would say, “Nope, this dog has a long time left to go,” and I would see him again. So when my husband didn’t get home after an hour, I knew something was wrong. Immediately I felt like I robbed myself of an opportunity. I should have cuddled my loyal pal; made him feel like we loved having him and that he was special in our hearts. I should have told him it was all right; that he could go in peace now and not feel any more pain.

Instead, my husband had to do all that. He couldn’t tell me what had happened at first since he was sobbing so hard when he got home. I kept asking and he said he couldn’t talk about it. After a half an hour of crying together, my husband was able to tell me about the awful experience. He said the vet was a warm and supportive woman who hugged him when it was over and told him he did the right thing. She said our beloved pet was very old, probably had liver disease and would not last long. “He’s old,” she told him, shrugging her shoulders. So my husband hugged our dog, told him we loved him and watched as she injected him with a sedative. Rather than just lie still and take it, he fought a bit, which made the whole episode even more awful. (He always was a defiant bastard, that dog). Soon afterward, however, he was still, and then the lethal injection was given. He fell asleep for good in my husband’s arms.

If you’re up there, dear, sweet guy, please know we will miss you terribly and hope you feel no more pain.