That is true, but it doesn’t really tell the story. I paid a veterinarian to euthanize my dog.
It was the right thing to do. Rosie, my dog of nearly 15 years, was dying of liver cancer. She had stopped eating several days earlier (this after we had been hand feeding her for about a week). I gave the go-ahead when the vet, describing the likely progress of the disease, said seizures were a distinct possibility.
I couldn’t put her (or, to be honest, me) through that. So I decided it was time. While I stroked her head, trying to calm her (she hated the vet as much as many humans hate the dentist) she received a sedative. It calmed her, but also made her appear drunk, with her with tongue lolling from her mouth. Then, the vet gave her another injection, and we pet her until the vet, listening to her slowing heart with a stethoscope, said quietly: “She’s gone.”
Turns out that wasn’t even the hardest part. The hardest part: living without her. Being reminded over and over of her absence. Feeling the void in my heart.
In short, I’m surprised to discover how much I miss her.
I’m surprised because I didn’t actually want Rosie. My then-wife brought her into the house, without consulting me, at the urging of our then-6 year old son. Given my druthers, I would haven’t had brought her, or indeed any dog, into the house.
But despite my initial resistance, I grew to appreciate her. She was a sweet thing, always excited to see me return home, and friendly to anyone who approached. She retained a puppy-like energy and enthusiasm long after moving into doggy adolescence and adulthood. She played well with the kids and our older dog, and even adapted with little complaint when we brought to kittens into the house.
Sure, she was too quick to bark, and seemed to think it was her responsibility to police the neighborhood. As she got older, she became obsessed with food, spending virtually all of her time watching me for a sign, any sign, that it was time to eat. She would leap up and following me anytime I went anywhere near the kitchen where her food was stored. Late in her life, she began waking us to eat earlier and earlier in the morning. In the name of getting a decent night’s sleep, I eventually resorted to feeding her a second dinner immediately before I went to bed. (Don’t worry. To prevent canine obesity I didn’t actually give her any more food; I just split her usual allotment into three instead of two.)
Plus, she had terrible, deadly, paint-peeling, breath.
But she was family. Not just a pet we “owned,” but a vital part of our lives. She was there every morning, waiting (okay, begging) to be fed. She so loved to go for walks that she became ecstatic at the mere sight of her leash. She met me at the door when I came home, tail wagging so hard her whole body shook. She would lay with me in bed, and snuggle next to me on the couch. When she got older, and could no longer climb onto the bed or couch, she would lay at my feet, simply wanting to be as close as possible.
Most importantly, she gave us the kind of unconditional, absolute love that only a dog can give. She adored us. And, it turns out, I adored her. Loved her. And, as I said, now I miss her. I miss her greeting in the morning. I miss hearing her nails clicking on the hardwood floors as she moved through the house. I miss feeling her warmth through my bare feet when I walked over a spot she had just been laying in. I miss her doggy smell. I miss looking into her deep, soulful eyes.
I’m not sorry I had her killed. It was the right thing to do. But I am sorry she’s gone. I miss her. A lot.
Rosie Weiss
1996-2011
R.I.P.
