Our 16-year-old Schnauzer, Max, looked up at me from the veterinarian’s examination table. His once sparkling eyes were cloudy. That tongue that once flopped back and forth, cheek to cheek, was now listless. Where I once had to hold him tight on this examination table, so eager was he to jump down, he now rested motionless in my arms.
A.A. Milne, creator of Winnie-the-Pooh, once said, “Some people talk to animals. Not many listen. That is the problem.”
I had listened to Max for years, but in the last few months, I had been having trouble. “Are you tired, ol’ Boy?” I asked, “Do you want to go home and be with your brother, Baylor? Or do you want me to keep hovering over you?”
I was trying to listen.
We had taken Max to Dr. Irene Ballard, our caring and compassionate veterinarian, twice in the past few months. Max’s mobility had rapidly declined. He had gone from being able to eat on his own to depending on me to bring him his food, and then I had to hand-feed him each bite. And perhaps worse, he had what Dr. Ballard called “canine cognitive dysfunction,” or “doggie dementia.” Max would get lost in a familiar room or stuck behind a chair. “Maybe that’s why he just stares at his food dish,” I commented to Lori, “he’s forgotten how to eat on his own.”
And so I listened to Max, messages I didn’t want to hear. I knew in my head what we needed to do, but I didn’t have it in my heart to do it, at least not yet.
Knowing when to euthanize a pet is not always easy. Max had all the signs: decreased mobility, inability to eat on his own, and constant restlessness.
“I can keep hand-feeding you, taking you in and out to potty, watching you to make sure you don’t jump down from your perch on the couch and hurt yourself.” As I spoke, Max peered up at me with a blank stare, helplessly leaning in to me.
Finally, I admitted, “This is not sustainable.”
The truth is, dogs do not understand that they are dying, so the decision to “put them down” usually falls on the owner. Lori and I had difficulty being the ones who determined “life or death” for Max. Even after we decided, I hoped he would somehow rebound. The day of our last appointment, I watched him, hoping he would eat on his own, as if his doing so would constitute a “stay of execution.”
We grow attached to our pet friends till they become “family.” Max had a sweet face that said, “I accept you like you are,” so I felt like I was betraying a loved one. I could keep him alive, for he had that occasional day when he seemed to say, “I’m fine, watch me jump for that treat.” But he had more days when I thought he was saying, “I’m not feeling well, can you feed me?”
Then the day came: we waited with Max in the veterinarian’s exam room.
I prayed aloud for Max as Dr. Irene gently placed the needle in his frail body, (I held him so tightly that I reminded the Dr. to make she didn’t accidently put the needle in me instead) said a prayer of thanks for all the good times when Max could jump in my lap, lick my face, and in his own canine way, tell me he loved me. Clutching him, I whispered, “I will miss you, Max.”
And he slipped away.
“Some people talk to animals. Not many listen.”
We did listen.
As best we could.
Good-bye, Max.