One of the results of having written about Zeke, on the old blog and in the book, is that on occasion, people come to me as their dogs reach the end of their lives, in search of a sympathetic ear.
A lot of times they’re just looking to vent with someone who’s been there, an impulse I completely understand. This society isn’t really set up to handle grief over the loss, or impending loss, of a pet. There aren’t a lot of resources out there aside from formal counseling, which is sometimes not worth the bother. I know Becky and I were quite disappointed with the options presented to us by Zeke’s vet, for instance. A bit of sympathy, a bit of listening, sometimes helps a lot. Readers at the old blog did that for me as I was going through losing Zeke, and helped keep me going. I’m happy to lend an ear once in a while to pay that forward.
But sometimes people want more than a sympathetic ear. Sometimes they want an answer to the hardest question a person faces as a dog ages. I got that question today in email from an online acquaintance and fan of Zeke, who faces a parting from a sweet older dog she adopted late in that dog’s life. I struggled for an answer, the way I always do when someone asks that.
And I realized that there wasn’t an answer online for me at the time, and there still isn’t. I’ve decided to take what I wrote to my acquaintance, make it more general and more detailed, and put it here where it will show up in that least happy of all Google searches. Not that this is the definitive answer: It’s just the one I wish I’d had when I asked the question.
How will I know when my dog’s time has come?
The fact that you’re asking this question proves that you’ve done right by your dog. You’ve kept her safe, treated her well, given her a long life. Or perhaps you’ve adopted an older dog, which so few people do. So many dogs aren’t lucky enough to make it this far. Thank you for taking such good care of your best friend.
There is no easy answer to this question.
When my dog Zeke approached the end of his life after 15 years and change, he began to lose strength in his back legs, making walking a risky proposition. He also lost a lot of weight, and toward the end was in obvious discomfort from arthritis in his hips. Well-intentioned people told me that I would “just know” when it was Zeke’s time. That answer was unhelpful. Though the people saying it meant only the best, the answer just made me feel worse, because I didn’t actually know, and I wondered if I was doing something wrong, if there was some obvious sign to which I was blinded by separation anxiety.
I wasn’t sure it was time to put Zeke down until he literally could not get up off the floor. “His time” may actually have been some days or weeks earlier. It wasn’t something he could tell me. He was alert until the end, had a good appetite until the day before, and went for his last long walk only five days before the end. He wanted only to be with me, to make me happy, and he would have held on for me for significantly longer than we let him if I’d asked him to.
You want to relieve your dog’s suffering, and your vet may be able to shed some light on the degree of pain your dog is in. They want so much to be brave for us: they will mask pain, ignore it and hide it, in order to live up to their own impossibly high standards of duty to us. If your vet says the dog is in pain, and that pain cannot be controlled easily, that may perversely make your decision easier. Or at least clearer.
But what if it’s not so clear-cut? That’s a tough call. One of the things that prompted our decision with Zeke was our fear that his weakness would mean a fall, with possible painful injury. That didn’t end up happening. A few months before his end, we actually had people come up to us on the street and berate us for cruelty in not putting him down. He was thin and walked achily. To those outside observers, the decision was obvious. To us, not so much. We saw the aches and the stiffness, but we also saw his fierce grins at going outside first thing in the morning, the happy barks at squirrels, the random spontaneous tail wags and voracious hunger, the groans of pleasure at scratches and knuckle-rubs in his ear canals. He even still liked getting in the car, despite the fact that the only place he ever went in those days was to the vet.
Were those drive-by people right, with their unsolicited advice? It’s possible. He did have a lot of discomfort in weeks afterward that they would have kept him from feeling. They would also have kept him from enduring quite a few sunny naps on the lawn in the park and many pounds of roasted chicken.
There are times when it becomes very plain what the right thing is, and Zeke was kind enough to give us one of those times. Until that time comes, and in the absence of strong recommendations from your vet about pain, the only navigational aids you have are shades of gray.
Unless you get hit by a truck before your dog’s time comes, you will soon be looking at all this in retrospect. You will have the rest of your life to second-guess what you do now. So you might as well put that off until later. You know how to take care of your dog. You know how to feed her, keep her as comfortable as you can, keep her warm and dry, administer whatever meds she needs. You’ve gotten her this far already.
Your dog is experiencing something that is almost completely new in the history of life on earth. She is coming to the end of her life without reason for fear, without unnecessary discomfort, with a loved one there devoted to making her passing as easy, even joyous, as possible. What an amazing gift to give someone out of love: the second-to-last gift you will ever give her.
The last gift, of course, is taking on the pain of separation for her: she would grieve so much more were she losing you. That notion helped me immensely after Zeke left. I would do it again for him if I had to.
You will make a right decision, as long as you pay attention to this animal you love as her life winds down. And no matter what happens, you will be tempted to wonder afterward if you did actually make the right decision.
The most important path to clarity is to love your dog right now, as hard as you can, while she is still here. To the degree there are answers for you to find, loving her fiercely will provide them. Your time together is drawing to a close anyway. She is not sitting around wondering if you’re going to make the right decision for her. She wants your comfort, your company, your love. Give her that — give yourself that — and the rest will follow.
Thank you, Chris.
We have a cat that is well past the 15yr mark. It’s becoming a something of an unanswered question, how much time she might have left.
And, admittedly the relationship between human and cat is not the same as the relationship between human and dog. But, there is still something to sharing your comfort, company and love.
I think this is an incredible idea—“The last gift, of course, is taking on the pain of separation for her: she would grieve so much more were she losing you.”
I’m going to be carrying that with me for a while.
Thanks for writing this. I wish we’d had the luxury of choosing the time ourselves. As it was, making the decision to have surgery was awful. I felt I had to justify the decision to those passers-by, like you said, when I knew it was the right thing…at least I knew it right up until she died. Then I wished we’d done it another day, or at a specialist, or when the moon was full.
There are support groups out there, both for before and after. Talking helps. I even talk to Bailey. She always was a good listener.
Very wise.
We (my extended family) recently lost a Bernese mountain dog to cancer, at only 5 years old. She was loved and petted and taken for ever shorter walks, until it was time. We all knew when that was, although two days before, we didn’t.
I remember sitting with her in the sunshine, a week earlier, falling asleep with her head on my leg; her tail thumped against the floor when I woke up and spoke to her.
Our canine friends (and feline friends for cat lovers) give us much more than we could ever give back. Your advice to love your dog each day as much as you can is the best advice you can give anyone who shares a life with an animal friend. Dogs and humans have many similar qualities. The ability to be loyal is just one. This being said, they appreciate the loyalty and love that we show them, and will return the favor in kind.
Thanks Chris.
Bill
Thanks Chris. So very well put.
The hard part is making a decision for a pet who cannot speak up and tell us its own wishes. It is easier to cling to memories of the love and good times we’ve shared. We end up searching eagerly for any remaining moments of happiness, and these moments tug at our hearts, blinding us to the pain, to the loss of quality life.
If it did not pain an owner so to put down a pet, I would worry about the owner. At the same time, it seems cruel to make the last days of our beloved pet’s life full of suffering simply because it hurts us so much to let go.
I’ve gone through putting down two cats recently: one a rare,nightmarish procedure that haunted me terribly, the second a peaceful ending that went as it should. The second procedure is the norm, thank God. There must be comfort for the pet to end its days surrounded by a master’s love as it quietly drifts out of consciousness.
This is a beautiful meditation on a hard, sad, painful moment. There are some notions and precepts here that I’ll hold close until the time comes that I need them, and meanwhile, as Huck the dog tells me every moment: seize the day, be what you are, and let’s have big fun while the sun shines.
Chris, we’re facing this decision with our nearly thirteen-year-old dog, Charley, who sufferes from, among other maladies, degenerative myelopathy that is slowly taking away his control over his hind legs, as well as over his bladder functions. Our vet, who is compassionate and an expert in both Western and traditional Chinese medicine, gave us a very practical suggestion.
She suggests that we each sit down and write down those things that we believe are the defining elements of a good life for Charley—such things as eating avidly, playing with his squeaky toy, enjoying those ever-shorter walks you mention, sniffing every square inch of our backyard when he goes outside, snuggling up to our legs on the bed at night, riding in the car (We bought a ramp to allow him to climb into the vehicle.) and perhaps even barking like crazy every time he sees the neighbor’s cat. Then we’ll combine our lists and talk over the results. She suggests that this will help avoid either the pitfalls of the optimist (waiting far too long), or of the pessimist (saying good-bye far too early).
In the final analysis, though, I imagine we’ll still make the actual decision based on our instincts as much as on rational planning. I doubt we’ll avoid a few pangs of regret over it, which is as it should be. Thanks for this, Chris.
Beautifully put, Chris, and imbued with heart and personal experience. Truth be told, no two decisions will be alike. Outsiders can make subjective decisions based on casual observations, but nothing beats what we know by being there all the time.
When Henry, my cat of more than 21 years, began having problems at age 19, all the casual recommendations were the same: look at his suffering and his pain (from arthritis)... Thankfully the vet I’ve used for many decades gave me the support and guidance I needed to better understand the particulars. Boxes beside the bed so he could sleep with me, books stacked near the couch so he could still enjoy my lap while I read, and some medication to help with the pain made all the difference in his world. His purr never faltered. Those things strangers didn’t see. He only needed some help, not a snap judgment. It wasn’t until the last few weeks when his years caught up with him that the pain of the decision became clear, as did it’s imperative nearness in time. My mother and I always said Henry was going to try to outlive the whole family—and by golly he gave it his best effort!
I’ve spent the decades of my life sharing my heart with one or more family members who happened not to be human. Every one of them was different, and every one of them needed to be viewed individually through the eyes of those who loved them. Yes, it really boils down to that vague “you’ll know” truth. But that knowledge comes from love and compassion, and that knowledge always means asking afterward if I waited too long or not long enough.
Well put. I’ve done that google search before and found little since it was after the fact. We’ve had to make that decision 3 times in 3 years (2 dogs and a cat) and each time, I just knew, though that first time, it was only after the fact that I could come to accept that I had really done right by my Zephyr.
The lasy paragraph characterises the best example of relationship not only with animals, but with our relatives. We must give them love right now, like today is the last day.
I like this post. Thank you.
p.s. sorry for my English
Oh! sorry. Not “the lasy” - “the last” is correct
This is wonderful, Chris. To me, the most useful part of it is acknowledging that if someone is making the decision painfully, they can already be confident that they’re making the right decision. Okay, maybe they’re a few days or a few weeks off the absolute optimal timing (as if that was something anyone could ever know). But if they know there’s a point where they’ll have to say, “prolonging this life is no longer right,” they’ll make as close to the right decision as it’s given to mortals to make.
I have no patience with people who think they can tell by seeing an animal once whether it’s time to go. Vets don’t know it either. It’s the people who live with them who know.
We have a wonderful vet who will come out to our home to put our animals down—we’ve had three go that way. It helps a lot, to have the vet and the whole family there to see them off. I have great respect for vets who understand this as part of their “ministry.”
Shurik, welcome. Don’t worry about your English. Glad you’re here.
I, too, received those condemnations about failing to euthanize my 13-year-old cat so as to relieve her “suffering.” I ignored them until my own mother scolded me for not putting down Tenacity.
“As long as she purrs when I pick her up, I know she still feels joy,” I responded. “Besides, I think of caring for Tenacity as training for when I will need to care for you in your final days.”
Who are we to intervene in this process called death? Death is a phase of life that has as much to teach us about living and being a better person as does the time spent between birth and death.
Even though animals cannot speak, I believe they understand life and death better than we do. And I also believe animals don’t experience the same mental anguish—suffering—regarding death as we humans.
Although Tenacity couldn’t speak, I trusted her to tell me when it was time for her to go. And she told me.
As the sun was rising that day, she jumped off the bed in the guest room where she’d been sleeping for nearly a week. She had food and water and a litter box on that bed, but had not used these for several days.
I heard her feet land on the foor and bolted from my bed. In the dawn’s light I watched her slowly walk down the hall toward my bedroom. We met in the middle and I carefully and tenderly picked her up. She put her head on my shoulder—but she did not purr.
It was time.
That was ten years ago. I still miss her.
Wonderful piece, Chris, and so much in it to think about, thank you. I’m saving it for later, with my fingers crossed in the hope that it won’t be needed soon. My two older dogs are 9 and 10, though, so not exactly pups. And the oldest has early-stage kidney disease. Okay, enough about that—I’m starting to cry just at the thought of losing her.
Anyway, just wanted to mention that I love the commenters here, such a great group of thoughtful people. I haven’t found that in many other places lately.
Hi Chris, I just went through the turmoil and grief of losing my partner’s 17 year old Shi Tzu. I wrote about it in my latest post on my blog. As you say, it was definitely not a clearcut experience, especially because Lan was not my dog-partner and I also had to consider my partner’s feelings in all this. During the last five, excruciating months of watching Lan deteriorate and eventually end up immobile on the floor of his pen, I went through the whole gamut of trying to decide what was the right thing to do, morally and practically. My partner refused to give up on Lan, pushing herself to unreasonable lengths to care for him… getting up at 4 in the morning after having returned from her night shift work at 2, spending way too much money on the most expensive and best-tasting food, sometimes neglecting me for weeks, sleeping with the dog for about half of those five months, so that at times I felt as if Lan came first no matter what. Emotionally I had to come to terms with what Lan meant to my partner and learn not to begrudge her her time to say good bye to him. But it definitely wasn’t easy, especially because it seemed as if Lan was going to hang on forever.
Some friends, all American, admonished me for allowing the suffering to go on, and at times I agreed with them, but as I watched the whole process move along, it occurred to me that we wouldn’t so easily be advocating putting a human loved one down, and certainly not to a someone who is not very close. Why do we make a difference between loving a human and loving an non-human? It is the same love, just expressed differently. I mentioned that the ones who advised putting Lan down (of course all meant in kindness) were Americans because during the countdown to Lan’s death my partner kept a blog about Lan and hundreds of Japanese followed it (on the day after Lan’s death her entry received 500 comments!). Not a single person suggested putting Lan down. From what I gather everyone saw it as integral to letting go of life and there was something “beautiful” about it, if that is the right word, including the pain of watching it happen. I’m not sure I truly understand. There is a deep sense of accepting pain and suffering as a part of life and that the struggle to live, the very spark that makes a living creature fiercely hang on, is worth it, no matter how painful. Since Japanese don’t believe in the afterlife in the same way Christians do, perhaps it is the very continuance of that spark that means more than the suffering, or that the suffering exists because there is life. I’m having a very hard time explaining this…
My partner was furious with me when I suggested possibly putting Lan down, not only because she felt it was not my place, but because she felt I had violated something sacred. After thinking on it for several months now and going through the whole process I’m more inclined to agree. I wonder now if there isn’t a whole lot of anthropomorphism going on when we assume that the animal hangs on because it wants to please us. Why does no one think to say that the animal simply wants to live, that it fights for its own spark? This makes me suspect that the calls to put the animal down, the talk of “pleasing us”, and all the following ceremonies we hold are actually for our own benefit, because, as a culture, we tend to deny pain, suffering, and death and it makes us very uncomfortable to have to face it directly.
I don’t know if you have seen any of the great Japanese films about funerals that have come out over the last 20 years. The most recent one, “Okuribito” (Departure), a story about a young funeral home apprentice, focuses on the fact that there is life amidst death. If you look you will notice that in Japan funerals tend to be very lively and often full of laughter and drinking. Naturally there is grief, but there is also a strong sense, in the midst of the funeral, that life is still going on and that the death is very much a part of it.
Lan’s death has changed something inside me. I don’t know what the answer to when the right time to go is, but I do know this… life is the rarest of sparks in the world and we know nothing beyond that.
Thank you, Chris. I like your blog, I read every post, but I feelt awkward because of mistakes. Now I will post comments more often :)
Well said. I went through this last year with my 14-year-old pup, when her kidneys failed. The despair of those weeks…
I could not believe that she would somehow, mystically inform me that she was done, and yet, in her way, through her behavior, she let me know. It just took me a little time to figure it out.
Very sound advice.
I often look back at the events that led to my own decision to let my long time companion go. I did love him fiercely as you describe and I’m positive that it was the right time. However, I can’t get past the thought that I just didn’t give him enough of those delicious treats in his last days like Zeke’s roasted chicken. Just plain old comfort food. He loved sneaking shots of Reddi Wip from the can with me when my wife wasn’t looking. I had a can with us at the vet on his last day but I was so selfish and spent most of those last minutes hugging him. Maybe it’s my own hang-up but it bothers me to this day.
So my only advice is to along with the comfort, company and love is lots of Reddi Wip.
When we were facing the inevitable with our 13.5 year old Aussie we, too, turned to a number of different sources for advice. “You will know” always seemed so vague, so unhelpful. Would we? Really?
A good friend provided an incredible insight. “Don’t wait so long that Taz doesn’t know you’re there with him at the end. You owe him that.”
That became our standard. We wouldn’t let things go too far, even if it meant cheating us of a few more days with Taz. We cut it close, and I still think I could have done the last few hours a bit differently. But overall, it was the right advice.
It’s been two years. We haven’t forgotten Taz, and the closing entry in “Walking with Zeke” rings painfully true. But we’ve decided we need dog energy in our lives and we’re currently dealing with the chaos of living with a 10 month old puppy. I hope it’s still a decade or more in the future but when the time comes to say goodbye to Bucko I will remember what I owe him.
Ron
It has been my experience that your dog will let you know, in a way that makes sense to YOU, the person who knows him best.
For my dog REX, one day, after 2 years of waking up and hungrily and happily having his medicine and his treats, he just woke up and said, “NO MORE PILLS!!! FUCK THIS SHIT!!! I AM DONE!!!” You could just feel it emanating off of him in waves, he was D O N E.
Secondly, no more interest in food. I think that is a near-universal sign that they are ready for this particular experience to be over.