I want to go where he went
If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.
= Will Rogers =
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I knew my little pet was getting seriously old -- dog years and all that -- but until a few weeks ago, I didn't know he was dying. Only last year, the doctor told us that Javier's heart was strong.
Even when I realized the worst, I was slow to pick up on the fact that it was time to "do the right thing." Until last Friday, when the penny dropped.
You get a sense that even though the thing you're contemplating is awful, you're not wrong to do it. It's odd. Nothing adds up and yet you're forced to accept the sum of the equation.
On Saturday morning, I called the vet and made the appointment for Monday. The eleventh of April. Three-thirty in the afternoon. I was crying. I may have been a bit short with the girl on the line because I felt she was dithering and not answering my simple questions. It was probably my fault; the act of making the call had upset me.
On Sunday we held Javier endlessly. He was lethargic and unresponsive. He could no longer eat or stand on his legs. His will to live had faded away so quickly. He had no interest in his surroundings or in any of us.
On Monday morning I awakened, after fitful sleep, plagued by second thoughts. Whose idea was this whole pet euthanasia thing? I asked Andrew. He let me talk it out. He said he supported me whatever my decision and he'd be with me throughout the day, no matter what it brought.
I called the vet. I said I'd show up that afternoon with Javier, but just to talk. If I didn't get good answers, I was prepared to bring him back home. The same girl I had talked with on Saturday was kind and patient. Jessica. She said whatever we wanted to do was fine; they were only there to help.
I hung up, satisfied. I'd allow my little dog to die at home! Wouldn't he rather? It was my choice. I'd hold him, giving him water with my fingertip if need be. I had nothing better to do. He'd probably pass away peacefully in his sleep anyway.
Why subject him to a trip to the vet where he'd be dispatched by lethal injection? Wasn't that cruel? What had my baby done to deserve such an end?
Then Javier moaned. Twice. It was the first time I'd heard his little voice in many days. Erica had told me on Sunday, as she cradled and comforted him, that she was sure he was in pain. I'd had my doubts.
Maybe I was wrong. I did a mental about-face and began a process of dull acceptance: We'd put Javier in his teal crate, drive to the veterinary hospital, and talk to Dr. Chambers. We'd learn that we were doing the right thing, the humane thing. Javier would be put to sleep. No more suffering and no more questions.
I looked outside. Andrew, who had been weed whacking in the back, beyond the pool and by the fence, had dug a small grave. There was a mound of red dirt and a shovel standing by. The white lights twinkled in the ivy and the pines sighed in the wind. It was a beautiful day.
At the vet, it was confirmed that Javier was in renal failure. He was never going to recover, in fact was all but gone already, except for pain from toxins flooding his tiny body.
Javier had had a long life, a good life, the doctor reassured us. He was suffering. More pain would follow before he finally expired, and no one could say how long that would be.
Later, after giving us all the time we needed (at least that's what was said) to hold Javier and say goodbye, Dr. Chambers calmly gave our bright-eyed boy a shot. Within ten seconds, Javier's little head sagged. His wide eyes stayed open and seeing that, I guess is when my heart actually broke.
The doctor faded out of the room. Erica said she couldn't bear to hold Javier anymore. She was sobbing. I took him and I'm pretty sure I made a spectacle of myself, wailing and telling him I was so sorry. He didn't hear me. His little eyes just stared and he was our Javier still, only he wasn't. He had left us.*
Since then, in between crying jags, I have thought: What kind of person takes a hit out on their own sick dog? I'd written a check to pay them to kill him, and then I'd watched them do it.
The power of guilt is strong. The feelings it produces can be irrational. This article by Moira Anderson Allen helped me. A little. She calls euthanasia the "grand master of guilt." I concur.
And now there's an angel statue back by the fence, marking where our Javier is buried. Loving torture, I look out there a lot.
If you'd like to see pictures of Javier's burial, click here.
And that is all for now.
*In all of these photos, Javier was still alive. Except the one of the sky, and the last one.
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Happy Thursday
Reader Comments (12)
Oh Jenny. I'm crying as I write this; thinking of when we had to put down my precious cat Cleo a number of years ago now. She was my best friend and died too young; it was her kidneys, they had been failing for a while. She was ready to go, but that didn't make it any easier for us who loved her. It isn't easy and I am so sorry that you have to go through it. I'm praying for you all.
@Heather ... Thank you and I'm sorry about Cleo. It's nice to know somebody understands. Love to your Oliver. xoxo
So sorry for your loss
Lordy, how painful it is to have to do....
Love to all of you!!!
(((HUG)))
@Paul ... Thank you.
@Donna ... Thanks for your love and prayers, my friend. xoxo
Oh, no - is it wrong to say first your M-i-l and now your dear Javier? I know dogs aren't people, but I've loved all my dogs (and cats) so completely that a huge hole seemed to chink out of my heart when they left us. And, by "left us" I mean that someone in the family took them for "the shot." Our last Golden died 11 years ago, and my husband couldn't get out of the car at the vet - he was so upset. I was determined I wouldn't cry while she was still alive because I wanted her last moments to be peaceful. I didn't know the vet because I had to choose a city clinic when she took a turn for the worse. (I was worried she wouldn't be able to breath if we tried to bring her home to altitude.) I know some dogs are afraid at the vet, but Breezy always thought it was one more place she could make friends (and probably get a treat). Bree was weak but wagging her tail when the vet gave the final shot. When I glanced up at the woman vet to make sure it was over, tears were streaming down her face. Of course, then I cried and cried. My heart breaks for your family. You've all been through a lot of loss this month. Hugs to you from CO.
@Barb ... no, not wrong to say at all. Death comes in threes and since 3/3/16 I have lost my mother-in-law, a lifelong friend, and now my beloved pet. It has been a devastating five weeks but God is good and we are doing all right. Javier had a good run and he was a happy little dog. My daughter Erica reminds me daily that he was a very fortunate fellow to have all of us to love him for his entire life. But we miss him. Your Breezy sounds like a pure delight of a dog. May she rest in peace. xoxo
One of the hardest things we have to do.
It's a very sad thing to have to do, but necessary and not selfish. I'm so sorry you all lost your beloved, sweet little Javier. A few years ago, I had been keeping Katie Elizabeth, my daughter's schnauzer. If fact, I had her for quite some time. One day my sis-in-law as petting her and found two lumps behind her ears. I didn't want to believe her, but soon after I could tell Katie wasn't doing so good; she'd kind of lost her feistiness. Like you guys, I took her to the vet to see what was going on with her. Well she had leukemia, the vet said there was not one thing they could do. So, they allowed me some time alone with her, and I tried not to cry hoping she could hear me and understand what I was saying, like Oh Katie I'm so sorry I wasn't as good to you as I should have been, and Katie you have been such a love to all of us, and we loved you so much. She laid there looking at me. When they gave her the shot, she was gone immediately. No more pain for her but lots for us. I cried and cried, Jenny. A lot. So, in that respect I understand. xoxo
@Judy ... I agree. xoxo
@Sally ... Oh girl I feel your pain and I thank you for understanding. They are just so defenseless, looking to us for everything, that it's so sad when their little bodies wear out. I imagine that in time I will remember only the joyous times but right now it hurts so much. Thanks for reading and sharing. xoxo
This is heartbreaking. As Heather said, we went through this with our cat Cleo, right down to the renal failure. Calling to make that appointment, making the drive and being in that office are such hard things. It was Bob, Heather and I and we were all crying - I hated to walk out of the room. Then we did the burial at home with more crying. I am so sorry - I remember the pain.
PS - I am so frustrated with my blog reader. Once again it didn't inform me of this post!
@Mari ... it is very comforting to know that you know how I feel. It gets a little better every day. I don't use a reader so I don't know what to say about my posts not showing up! You're an icon in the long lineup at the top of my screen! I click on you every day or two, to see what's going on. xoxo