My daughter lost her dog. This was a pretty traumatic event for her, as it was completely unexpected. One day he was running around, stealing food off the table and getting in the trash, as usual. The next he was deathly ill and had to be put to sleep.
School was in its first week, and everything was rush and hustle. We noticed that Dash was not his usual super perky self (he was named "Dash" for a reason) but it wasn't enough of a lack for us to think something was wrong. By the next day he wouldn't get up off his bed, we knew something was really wrong and we rushed him to the vet. The vet told us that he had yellowing on the skin inside his ears and in the sclera of his eyes, a sure sign of hepatitis, which indicated some sort of liver failure. He hadn't been off his food, or showing any signs of illness, it was one day normal, the next day a tiny bit slow, and the next complete shut down. At first the vet thought, given the yellowing, that maybe Dash had ingested something toxic. He put him on fluids right away and drew some blood for tests. We waited, my daughter was terribly distraught, and the vet wasn't talking like the prognosis was very good.
I have to say that it is a terribly helpless feeling to watch someone you love so much mourn. Charlotte was trying to keep her hopes and spirits up, but both of us knew by the way the vet was talking that chances were slim. Sure enough, the vet came back and explained what the blood analysis showed. Dash had an autoimmune disorder, he had probably had it his entire life, and it had slowly destroyed all of his red blood cells. The doc said that the effects of this kind of disorder come on very fast, seemingly over night, and that there was not much in the way of treatement. Dash could have a blood transfusion and be given drugs that would destroy his immune system, but it would only prolong things.
We had to make the tough decision of whether it would be better to help the little guy pass away gently, or prolong his illness. The vet gave him some medication to help him through the night and we took him home. We layed him on his bed and the girls stayed with him, talking to him and telling him what a good boy he was. We shared all our funny and good memories of the little black Italian greyhound we rescued 7 years ago. We laughed about his third ride in the car when we went through Starbuck's drive through and he tried to walk through the service window, or how he would wear everyone out chasing his tennis ball and still be raring to go when all of us couldn't throw another ball. How he would hold the kittens down and nibble on their fur. How we started calling him "Fatty Dash" because he was the chubbiest Italian Greyhound anyone had ever seen.
By the next morning Dash was really out of it. He hadn't moved from his bed. The vet had told us that if he got like this, he wasn't going to make it and needed to be put to sleep.
Charlotte confessed to me that she didn't know if she could go in with him. She was scared and didn't know if she could handle it. This is where I had to make a hard decision. I could either help my daughter avoid a tough situation and tell her she didn't have to. I could spare her a traumatic event, shelter her and take care of it myself... or I could tell my daughter that part of life is having to be brave for others. That she was the center of this little dog's life, and even though she was scared, she needed to be there for him, to help see him off and take care of him to the end. That being brave doesn't mean we aren't scared, it means we show up and take care of business.
I decided on the latter.
She agreed with me, and even though she was scared she went with Dash. The veterinary office prepared a room for them with a doggy bed on the floor. They let Charlotte sit with Dash and comfort him for as long as she wanted, giving them space and peace. She cried for her little dog and by the time it was done the entire staff of the clinic was in tears. The vet was kind and compassionate, as was her staff, and Dash went restfully and peacefully in Charlotte's arms. The last thing he saw and smelled was his girl, the last thing he heard was what a good boy he was and how much he was loved.
She came home and cried and we talked about how that's okay, how mourning those we love is right, and sometimes it takes a little while to get all the hurt out.
It was hard for me to witness her in such terrible sadness, things like this kind of render all your mom powers useless. There is no bandaid for this kind of booboo. There is no kissing or talking this away. It just has to be borne, and all you can do is be there to share it.
It was tough and sad and terrible, but she did right by her dog. After it was over, she said she was glad she had been there, that she was glad she was able to hold him and that she would have regretted it if she hadn't.
There were many important things to learn in all of this, not the least of which is that death is a part of life.
But most importantly, even if you are scared, you do the right thing. You show up. It's important.
My daughter showed up. I don't think I have been more proud.
