A couple weeks ago Becky came home once again to find that Zeke had fallen, and was unable to get up. I have spent much of the time since at home with Zeke. I’ve actually planned to go in to work a couple times and had Zeke strand himself early in the morning, sometimes more than once, and called in at the last minute, blowing off two meetings that I remembered and perhaps more that I did not.
In that time spent at home with him, which followed on the heels of two weeks just before Thanksgiving in which I stayed home on purpose, I have learned a few things.
1) I really don’t miss my job when I don’t go in. At all. I miss having a routine and being able to leave the house without guilt, but I find myself remarkably unconcerned at the prospect of losing this job because of my staying with Zeke. (Becky has been suggesting I move on to other things for some years now.)
2) The letter carrier that works our route these days in the second half of the week is just insanely hot.
3) I am as ready as I will ever be for Zeke to go. Which is not very ready, true. But I seem to have reached some sort of acceptance, of perhaps a temporary nature. Once or twice I have come upon him sleeping so soundly that it seemed the time had come and gone without my noticing. His breaths are very far between. He does not rouse to a caress of his chest. The other night at 2:00 a.m. I was certain for about thirty seconds that he had died, and was debating whether to wake Becky or just to go back to sleep and deal with things in the morning when he toook a deep breath, opened his milky eyes and gazed at me for a moment.
That is how familiar, how much a constant companion his end has become: I actually considered going back to sleep.
He might live six more months, or six days. There are mornings when he looks as though he could reach twenty, and then there are mornings when we double check the phone number on the least fun web page I have ever read. (This is not a reflection on the vet who owns the page, for whose existence I am surpassingly grateful.) Neighbors who love him, and most of them do, have quietly said their goodbyes. And then the next day they greet him joyfully, happy to see him plodding down the street, and they assure him that he is a very good dog and say goodbye again.
I am surprised that I’m not sadder. I am grateful for every single moment. Neighbors say warm things toward me about my apparent patience and gentleness in taking care of Zeke, and all I feel is wonder at their words. It is not patience that allows me to sit placidly next to him in the park as he naps, resting up for the trek back home. It is not patience that keeps my stride from lengthening as he hobbles, that loosens the tendons in my shoulders as I carry him back up the hill on bad days. It is something between gratitude and avarice. I want every last damn second.
Sweet, old, tired boy.
And his dog’s kinda cool too.
Zeke… Chris is so lucky to have been the one you came to possess. I envy him, even now when such deep love is so painful.
Re: Surprise at the lack of sadness.
I felt a bit of the same thing with Tito.
I think what’s happening is, some deep part of you is convinced you’ve done everything possible—both during his life with all the grand outdoor adventures, and now, with his health.
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(Just FYI: I have a snail-mail letter coming on your input on my book chapters.)
I grew up in Alaska with a 130-pound mutt as hiking companion, wildlife early-warning system, and occasional bodyguard. My family adopted him from an abusive neighbor.
We moved to Florida when I was eleven, and he was already getting up in dog years. He developed arthritis soon after, which eventually became crippling. After he couldn’t walk, we carried him outside four times a day for about six months.
My mother still blames herself for holding on to him long after it became clear that he was ready to go. I’ve never been sure: I treasured every minute I had with him, and it was easy to see that he was still happy because he was with us.
I hope you’ll accept all the solace I can give you, Mr. Clarke. Death is hard to face, but I hope the next time I see him, I can face him with your fortitude and aplomb.
O to be a neighbor who doesn’t speak of “patience” and can share a good stiff drink and, perhpas, cry with you. I know the “patience” crowd well, but I don’t understand them.
I’ve a 12 year old greyhound who’s probably just a few steps behind Zeke on the path we all must walk. Amen brother, Amen.
Oh, geez. I was already feeling emotionally wrecked, and you had to go and post this. Now I can’t find the damned Kleenex box.
I often think, when I take Indy (10.5 yo Aussie with rapidly developing arthritis) for shorter and shorter walks on the mostl no-leash beach here at Jalama, how Zeke might enjoy it too.
My thoughts are with you and Zeke and your family.
I have an old dog (we call him our little old man) too. He forgets to eat on his own, so we hand feed him, and clean up after him. I’ve had days when I come on him sleeping in the hall and he doesn’t wake, and I watch to see if he’s still breathing.
It’s so hard to see them age and fail. We had our oldest dog put down earlier this year. I keep thinking she wasn’t quite ready to go, and that makes me sad. But she had spells where she couldn’t breathe when she got excited, and the last thing in the world I wanted was for her to die like that, gasping for breath, suffocating. So we took her in. My husband spent all her last day with her, sitting on the couch and petting her. She died hearing us tell her what a good dog she was.
It’s so sad, so hard. We love them so much, and their lives are so short…
I don’t know your dog, but I know dogs, and they are with almost no exceptions, the best people on earth. I know what you’re going through. Our current dog is getting up there in years and this thought has come to my mind as something I know I need to prepare for eventually.
It’s not right that good dogs have to get old and sick.
It’s so sad, so hard. We love them so much, and their lives are so short…
And worth every tear and heartache. Thinking of Teddy, and Max, can still make me want to howl with grief, but I wouldn’t give up the joy and wisdom I gained from having known them, for anything. They, and Zeke, and countless others, teach us so much about love, and leave us, and the world, a better place.
Grammar be damned.
It is something between gratitude and avarice. I want every last damn second.
You’ve got balance. You’re at peace.
I’ve experienced the same dilemma about when to euthanize. But when the time comes, Zeke will let you know—you will see it in his eyes.
My heart is with you and your beautiful boy. It seems timely that this quote was posted to the foster forum of Golden Beginnings Golden Retriever Rescue, the group which provided me one of my Golden boys:
“It came to me that every time I lose a dog they take a piece of my heart with them. And every new dog who comes into my life gifts me with a piece of their heart. If I live long enough, all the components of my heart will be dog, and I will become as generous and loving as they are.”—Cheryl Zuccaro
I’ve never had a dog but everything that you’re going through sounds familiar to me. The sadness will come in time. Don’t rush it because you have enough to deal with right now. I think that animals conceal the extent of their hurts to spare human feelings, too. It’s such a complex relationship.
I’m reaching for the kleenix too and am keeping you in my thoughts.
It’s so hard to say goodbye to these friends who give us so much and ask so little. They’re such heroes, but you’ll know. When we had to have our cat euthanized a few months ago, his vet whispered to him, “This will feel so good, little guy.” I don’t know why, but that’s really stuck with me. We all knew it was time and at that time there was no other choice consistent with our love for him. Be at peace.
I’ve loved reading your Zeke posts for a while now, and as many of them do, this one made me cry. But I understand completely about the relative lack of sadness, having gone through the same thing myself more than once.
I wish you, Zeke, and family as much peace and as little pain as possible.
Chris, the original version of my comment #1 was “Sweet, old, tired boy. Sweet, tired human.” I should have left it that way . . .
Tim McCormack is right—you’ll know when it’s time, and the fact you don’t know how much longer you have with him means it isn’t time yet.
When Sam went last year (two weeks before his 16th birthday), I also was not as sad as I expected. I think it was because he prepared me.
We had a very quiet holiday together, just me, him and his new/old sister Molly (who is now around 14 herself). He barely ate anything—only bits of my own food, and only when I fed him by hand.
We had a longstanding practice of a daily snuggle, which in his late days devolved into me picking him up and sitting him on my chest (he’d dropped from about 22 pounds to maybe 15-17) and petting him as long as he would let me, usually only a few minutes. Then he’d retire to his own bed by the fireplace.
A night or so before New Year’s Eve, I picked him up and started petting. I was ready to put him back down again and start on my beer, but he didn’t budge, and kept staring straight at my face. So I abandoned the beer and kept petting. He just stared and stared at me. Must’ve lain up there a good 20 minutes before he was ready to get down.
On New Year’s Day, the three of us had a long, happy walk in a local park. The next day, the seizures started slowly. On the third, they didn’t let up, and I let him go.
When your friend has given you everything he has to give, and he tells you he is tired now, you know it’s only fair to let him rest, no matter how much it hurts you.
A year ago I hoisted Brandy the black lab onto the passenger seat in the pick-up and drove off to the vet. She leaned close into me and put a paw on my arm, happy to be taking her last ride. The time was right. She was an outdoor dog and couldn’t face another Wisconsin winter, but that affection she expressed at the end was a real mind bender.
My best wishes to you and Zeke.