I’m living a surreal week. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever planned ahead to end the life of another living being. Before your mind immediately jumps to axe murder, be assured that I’m talking about my dog, Monty.
Life for Monty has become a trial. He’s approximately 15 years old and incontinent and not very mobile. He’s deaf and mostly blind. He has stopped eating his usual food and will only eat treats and human food. (Fried eggs and raw hamburger are among his favourites). Despite all that, he doesn’t seem to be in terrible discomfort or pain, but I’ve made the decision to end his life before he gets to that crisis point. I’m playing God, and it feels bad.
It’s been months since I’ve been saying that Monty is living on borrowed time, yet he’s still paying it down. For a long time I’ve been thinking that I’d wait until he wouldn’t eat or drink, which would be the final, definitive sign; but I’ve come to realize that the only reason to wait is to assuage my own conscience about cutting his life short. Waiting until then will make it an even worse experience. He would be practically lifeless or whining in pain, and I would be running around in a panic, trying to contact the emergency clinic probably in the middle of the night or on a weekend. It would be a replay of the last days of our previous dog, Abe.
Abe’s decline was sudden, and it happened to be on a Friday that we fully realized that he was really in distress and that we had to act fast to put him out of his pain. We tried to contact our own vet, but it was too late in the day so we contacted the emergency vet and made an appointment to have Abe put down the next day. Despite the long wait in a crowded waiting room, Abe’s death was as humane, gentle and quiet as possible, and aside from being a bit nervous being in a strange place, he probably didn’t incur any undue stress. However, for Dave and I, it was a very difficult experience. We were vainly trying to keep our tears back and being under the eyes of strangers made it somehow more painful. The fact that the crisis had come upon us so quickly left us bewildered and shocked.
Monty’s situation is very different. He’s been visibly deteriorating over a period of years and could continue (who knows?) for another while. The fact that I’m emotionally exhausted from watching his decline has made me decide to bring his death forward an unknown amount of time. We are the caretakers of our family pets, which gives us this God-like power to decide whether their lives should go on or not. It seems both brutal and kind. All I know is, given his quality of life (something I can only guess at), and my own, I’ve decided this is the least painful course open to both of us and it’s on my terms.
Least painful, though, is a relative term. I was hoping that I could get an appointment with our vet last week once I’d made the decision, but they were full, so we chose a time next week when there would be no other clients at the clinic. The problem is that now I’m in a strange limbo of grief. It’s bizarre to know exactly how many days and hours Monty has left, especially this far ahead.
I’m imagining that some of you might be wondering what the fuss is about. It’s only a dog! For you, let me take a moment to describe Monty and the relationship between us..
We’ve been practically inseparable for ten years. He’s a little Maltese cross, and for many years he was happiest on my lap. He would ask to be picked up by putting his forepaws on my legs, especially during kitchen parties; he liked being part of the action, I guess. He was a strong defender of the house, and would bark whenever someone came to the door. Of course this was annoying at the time, but now that he can’t hear the doorbell, we miss that ferocious bark. When we first got Monty, the idea was to share him with our neighbour, Maureen, to ease the burden of dog ownership. We were both very keen on this idea, but Monty, not so much. He very early on decided he was my dog, and Maureen had to be content with frequent visits. This led to her adopting her own little mongrel, Rosie, who has been the light of her life. We still share a certain amount of responsibility for both dogs (a great arrangement, highly recommended). Monty is still very happy to visit Maureen and sleep for an afternoon on her lap while she works at the computer.
Dogs are ideal companions in many ways. They’re smart, but they don’t make smart comments. They’re loving, and their love is unconditional. They’re patient with whatever life throws at them, especially if it’s a ball. They do love a ball, or a stick. They couldn’t be more ecstatic when you walk in the door, no matter how often it happens. They make you exercise, because it’s what they need. They sleep heavily, but are wide awake on a dime, ready for anything.
Despite that Monty has never been the most demonstrative animal (some people have gone so far as to say that he’s not a real dog), I do believe he’s attached to me, almost as much as I’m attached to him. I will miss his physical presence, his comforting lack of judgement or complaint. He is a constant reminder that we worry uselessly about the little things. There’s a peace that I absorb from him that I don’t get from any other source. Even though he falls out of his dog bed as he’s trying to get out of it; he often takes a few steps then stops to regroup; he wanders into a corner and stares into it, uncomprehendingly; he has a chronic sinus infection; none of this makes him cry and moan and feel sorry for himself. He simply carries on. It’s time I put on my big girl pants and do the merciful thing.
Billie says it best.
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