Afterlife/Life after

A number of our clients use a local animal communicator.  I don't really have a problem with it.  One exception: a diagnosed a dog with a congenital orthopedic problem that required a surgical fix and the owner just kept saying, "But I take him to the communicator every week!" and I was all, "The communicator can't tighten your dog's ligament.  Surgery!"  On the other hand, one of our techs had a phone consult with the woman recently.  When the communicator asked one of the dogs what he loved best in the world he sent her this message: Sandwiches.  Which made me kind of believe her, because while the communicator had never personally met the dog, I have, and I have no problem believing that this dog loves sandwiches more than he does his adoring owner. 

Mostly, though, people go to her with end of life questions.  And I encourage this, because whether or not she's truly communicating with the animals, I've never had her fail to reaffirm what the owner believes.  And I've never had an owner not feel better about their decision.  One of our clients has been consulting with her recently.  The situation is horrid.  The dog is geriatric and suffered a major as-yet undiagnosed health problem several months ago.  The owner spent a fortune and while the dog recovered she is still obviously dealing with something that makes have bouts of severe gastrointestinal issues.  The owner can't afford heroics anymore.  Additionally, she is possibly moving to a new (rabies-free) country soon and has been very concerned about trying to bring her dog first through the travel and second through a potential quarantine.  And over the past couple of months the communicator has started to gentle the owner through the process...letting her know that she didn't see the dog making the move with her initially and now telling her that the dog believes her journey is complete. 

I believe it's a kindness.  To the owner.  And to the dog, who I don't believe is stable enough for that type of travel and who would not do well in quarantine. 

It was both gradual and quick, in the end. 

Tika, my dumpster dog that I adopted when she was 8 weeks old, had been in the longest decline.  EVER.  For the past year and a half she would go through bouts of being ill but she'd bounce back.  She had so lost her mind that she would get lost in the yard routinely.  She didn't care about her status with the other dogs anymore.  She tolerated Max and Julia, and sometimes even seemed to like them, which was completely outside the realm of normal for her.  She wasn't Tika anymore.  But she was eating and drinking and she liked to have me pet her and she would still run around outside sometimes. 

But over the past couple of weeks I noticed she wasn't really eating.  I don't think she was drinking much, and I know she rarely went outside anymore.  She was in a lot of pain, for which I had recently readjusted her medication to make her more comfortable.

I did that knowing that the side effects of the medication may hasten her death.  I accepted that risk, as I'd rather have her comfortable for a short time than in pain for longer.  I don't know if that's what precipitated what happened this weekend or not.  Right now, I can't decide if it matters. 

On Saturday, things were different.  I'd been trying to take quiet moments to sit next to her and scratch her ears and neck.  And on Saturday, she would move away from me.  Every single time.  She would be lying down somewhere and when I started to pet her she would scramble, having lost most control of her hind legs, to move.  Anywhere, as long as it was out of my reach. 

When do you decide an animal is suffering? 

I don't know, absolutely, and I found that everything I've ever counseled an owner about was useless to me when it was my own dog.  I suspected the cancer from four years ago had spread, although I hadn't bothered to do biopsies since I'd never agree to put her under anesthesia again.  But I suddenly wanted absolutes.  I wanted someone to point to a lab report or an X-ray and tell me there was no hope.  I wanted a communicator to tell me that Tika was ready. 

In the end, I locked myself in a room with her.  She was still hiding, trying to move away from me.  I held her head and looked in her face and said, "If you are done, it's okay.  I will miss you, but don't stay for me."  And she did something I hadn't seen her do in months.  She wagged her tail. 

Writing this it sounds hokey and ridiculous.  I realize that. 

I didn't sleep much last night.  I woke up early.  While I usually counsel people to be up front with their kids and to not be afraid to allow their child to see a euthanasia, I broke all of my own rules this time.  We told Max ahead of time, of course, but I knew that I didn't want Max to be present.  Tika was not our family's dog.  She was my dog and I wanted this time alone with her. 

At 6 a.m. I sedated her.  Fifteen minutes later I laid on the floor with her.  And then Cady came over.  She laid down with her head to Tika's.  Shortly after, Darwin walked over and curled up near her hip.  And, crying, I let my dog go.

The rest is somewhat blurry.  Bodies don't bother me - Tika was gone and I could take care of the rest of what needed to be done.  I had the same thought I had two years ago doing the same thing with Roscoe: when you carry a body in a bag out to your car, there is no way to disguise to your neighbors that you are, in fact, putting a body in your car.  Still, it was hard to take her out for the last time.  I realized how long it had been since she had been able to go for a walk.  I drove her to the clinic, remembering another time, several years ago.

I had arrived home to find Tika lying in a pool of her own blood.  I grabbed her and drove to the clinic.  After cleaning her up, it seemed like the blood was coming from her mouth, so I sedated her fairly heavily to get a good look.  I never could figure out the source of the blood, so after running some tests I just brought her home.  She was so groggy and I put her on the passenger seat.  Tika, for all her life, had a deep seated loathing for bicycles.  She would attack them.  And that day, on the way home, we passed a bicyclist.  I saw one.  I imagine that Tika was seeing three or four at that point.  And even in her drug-induced stupor, she bodily threw herself at the window of the car in full attack mode, until she collapsed onto the floor, still barking. 

It makes me laugh to remember that.  When they made Tika, they broke the mold, for which animal behaviorists everywhere will probably be eternally grateful. 

I miss my girl tonight.  For all of her foibles, though, I was lucky to have had so much time with her.

Comments

[redzils]

Oh, Christine. It is so hard to lose a beloved dog. I am glad your memories of her make you laugh.

[Nina the slackmistress]

It's the hardest. RIP Tika.

[Paul]

The Husband,
I never really liked Tika since she pooped all over your house and room in graduate school. But, she was a good dog in the end. I'll miss her trying to kill all cats during coffee grinding, and all bicycle riders before we didn't let her near/see any anymore...ever.

[After Words]

I'm so sorry for your loss. RIP TIka.

[SarcastiCarrie]

You had a good run together. And having a communicator (while a little hokey) seems like a really good way to put your mind at ease.

[Linda]

Oh, I'm crying. I'm so sorry she's gone.

[Jill]

I'm so sorry. We had to put one of our dogs down last fall. I still miss him.