July 24, 2019 – I said good-bye to Chuck last night.
He had stopped eating again on Thursday. I watched him pick at his food. My mom would point out when he was eating. I had to remind her that he was barely eating 1/4 of what he should be – barely enough to survive. I phoned my vet on Monday and said that I thought that it was time to let him go. I couldn’t continue watching the roller coaster. I couldn’t continue waking up in the middle of the night to see if he was still alive. I couldn’t keep worrying if every time I took him out would be his last time. He had referred to it as watching your pet approaching a cliff. They would approach and then dart away and then approach again. Eventually, they would go over. I couldn’t keep watching in anticipation of when Chuck would get too close to the cliff. I wanted him to go with dignity.
He was whimpering on Monday night while we ate dinner. I fried up a chicken breast for him and hand-fed it to him. He ate the whole thing. Then he paced for about 1/2 an hour. The vet said he probably had indigestion. He finally laid down and slept. He slept so soundly that I had to wake him up in the morning to take him out.
I spent most of the weekend and most of Monday and Tuesday crying. My mind knew it was the right decision but my heart wasn’t listening. How much time did he have? Was I cheating him out of years? Was I doing the right thing for him? I tried to imagine what the quality of his life would be over the course of the next year. It would be a constant roller coaster. He would eat and then stop eating. We would switch food and then he would eat for a bit. Then he would stop eating. Repeat. And, in the interim, how much damage would this be doing to him?
We went for a final walk yesterday afternoon. He walked and sniffed like it was just another walk. We approached the car and Mom held his leash while I assembled the ramp so he could get in. He walked up the ramp without any coaxing. Usually it would take 3 or 4 tries before he would walk up. And the same when we arrived at the vet. I assembled the ramp and he calmly walked down. His coat shone in the sunlight. His nose was raised, catching any scents in the air. He looked dignified and regal. He reminded me of one of my first photos that I had taken of him. We had gone on a fundraising hike for his alma mater rescue. After the hike, I put a long training lead on Chuck and he waded out into a creek. He stood on a rock with his nose raised in the air. The wind caught his ears and they were blowing in the wind. It’s one of my favourite pictures of him.
Chuck was calm and stoic the whole time. He enjoyed a few final liver treats. He didn’t fuss. I sat with him; telling him I was sorry, he was a good boy, he was special, he meant so much to me and he was loved. He was there and then he wasn’t.
We were quiet the whole ride home; lost in our own grief. I walked into the apartment and put his leash in the hall closet. I washed his bowls and put them in the hall closet next to the leash. I picked up his beds and stacked them on top of his bed in my bedroom. I gathered his dry food and the placemat that used to be under his water bowl and put them into a garbage bag. I’d toss the bag tomorrow morning. Mom said that the livingroom looked so bare now that his stuff was gone.
I sat and watched TV. I glanced down at the clock and saw that it was 8pm – the normal time I’d take Chuck out for his final pee of the night. I looked around because the routine was no longer. I went to bed early. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the empty beds piled up at the foot of my bed. There would be no deep snoring emanating from there. There would be no one-eyed stare, soft snorts, head shake, and ear slaps as he woke up in the morning. There would only be silence.
Diary of a DOW 