(Editor’s note: Ultimately, this column, which unfolds in two parts, is a brief look into the idea of assisted suicide or euthanasia for humans, told initially through the experience of the recent passing of our dog. It’s a sensitive subject, but one I have strong opinions on and what I would consider a rather healthy or insightful perspective on. You may or may not agree.
The biggest mistake a writer usually makes when writing about personal grief or an experience that produces heightened emotions is writing about it too soon. What flows is usually deeply personal and doesn’t make much sense to readers in general. Moreover, the spilling of emotions can make people uncomfortable. At the time of writing this, the hurt of losing our dog is still fresh, but I strapped on my journalist cap and did my best to keep the experience of euthanizing our dog as “journalistic” as possible.
I only include this half of the overall story for comparison in part two and how differently the case of our dog would be handled were she a human.)
Whenever I’ve heard the term “die like a dog,” it’s always meant to be taken in the derogatory, a reserved comment for someone hated, reproachful, and unworthy of forgiveness. However, after putting our dog down of 15 years after her year-and-a-half battle with bladder cancer, if anyone ever says that to me, I’m going to take it as a sentiment of hope. My dog passed with grace, dignity, and wag of her tail. Shouldn’t we all be so lucky?
In March of 2014, my wife and our dog Ruppy were in the kitchen when Ruppy stumbled once, corrected her step, then fell into a cabinet and collapsed on the floor. At first my wife thought little of it because Ruppy was an excited goof and prone to taking spills instead of successful jaunts around the house (frankly, it’s a wonder she never broke a bone). My wife got her back on her feet and only became alarmed when Ruppy collapsed again, and after hitting the floor, made no move to get up.
We took her to the vet, where it was determined she had a case of vestibular disease, which is simply a loss of equilibrium and, in Ruppy’s case, most likely due to her age (she was 16 or 17 then). Vestibular disease effects humans, too. Within a few days on her prescription, she was running around the house and falling around the house like normal. That’s when her incontinence started.
Ruppy was not one to pee in the house and was real good about running to the door when she had to go outside, so, again, we blamed her loss of control on her age. She was old. It happens. We geared her up with diapers, which we called shorts, and sent her on her way. She took to them graciously, however, getting a dog in diapers is not like getting a baby into them, so the first one went on a bit sloppy and fell off in minutes. When I went to put it back on her, I noticed a tiny, almost miniscule, drop of blood.
And isn’t that the way all catastrophe starts? One, single, drop of danger you almost overlook?
A urine analysis determined she had a bladder infection, which we assumed because she had a few in her life, so she was prescribed an antibiotic. However, the antibiotic didn’t work and the bleeding got a little worse throughout the treatment. The vet upped the antibiotic strength, and when that didn’t work, ordered a urine sample drawn directly from the bladder. An ultrasound used to locate the bladder during the procedure uncovered a growth in her bladder. An official ultrasound was ordered. The results of which hit us hard:
Ruppy did, in fact, have a tumor in her bladder, and the tumor was mostly inoperable because it was located at the neck, where the urethra meets the bladder. This was in July of last year, and she was given anywhere between three months and a year to live.
It was explained to us that the cause of death would be one of two things or possibly both. Due to the tumor’s location, it would overtake the opening to the urethra, sealing it off. In turn, her urine would poison her system or her bladder would rupture, whichever came first. My wife and I determined right there that we wouldn’t let Ruppy suffer either death (or both) and keep a strict eye out for signs. When they occurred, we’d sadly put her down to prevent her suffering. Most dog owners would do the same.
This started a year-long regime of medication to control the growth rate of the tumor, hourly potty breaks outside, and waking up one to two times a night to take her out because urine is an irritant to a bladder and tumors thrive on irritation.
We also prepared her a “Food Bucket List,” certain she was going to “go” at anytime. The only thing that “went” anytime soon was her shapely physique when she gained a few pounds from all the food. Frankly, she showed not a single sign of dying or even slowing down last summer.
She kept that pace until about a week ago at the time of writing this (about two at the time of reading this).
I’m going to break here and skip past the details of the week prior to her death. I don’t want to relive it at the moment. I will say that it unfolded exactly how a story is written, with a beginning middle, and end, complete with conflict, twists and turns and dashed hopes that ultimately ended with the bitter-sweet resolution in the decision to end a loved one’s suffering.
Euthanizing her was by far the most humane thing to do. The loving thing to do. And whether or not you have a shared love of household pets and can sympathize with the deep sorrow of losing one, you will probably agree that it would be inhumane to let a suffering animal languish so that it had a “natural,” unassisted passing.
The moment she died, my heart broke in two, but when the light went out of her eyes and she left this world, I felt like I witnessed nothing short of a miracle happen.
Ruppy died between the hours of 9 and 10 p.m. Monday, August 17. We had her for 15 years. She 17 or 18 when she died. She was calm and comfortable and perfectly at ease when she passed. And was well loved in life and in death. So, in my opinion, it was a beautiful way to go, and if anyone ever says to me, “I hope you die like a dog,” I’m going to say in turn: “Me too.”
Sadly, many of us won’t have the chance to “die like a dog.”
(If you’re wondering about the last line of this column, please refer to the beginning editor’s note, if you skipped it.)
