"Where do they go?"
Jack passed away around 3am yesterday. We knew this was a possibility, even a probability, no matter how much we hoped otherwise. He was a Very Good Dog.
We did our best in the last few weeks to give him as easy a time as possible. We stayed on his normal routine as best as we could, giving him little walks so as not to tire him out, but still including them because he loved them very much. We fed him everything he would eat, and because his appetite was very low, we can be sure that he enjoyed everything he ate. He still got to guard the door during the day, barking at anyone who came up to it, his favorite thing. (I considered trying to lower his stress by blocking him from the door, but it was something he truly loved.) He played with toys, if not with his usual abandon, and he had started drinking water again. But he was getting thinner and thinner, by the day it seemed, even though he didn't seem to be in any distress. "Just tired and not hungry," he seemed to be saying. But not hungry is bad, especially on a day when he's getting the best part of his cycle of anti-nauseal and anti-inflammatory. The medication had brought back his appetite, for the most part, but on the last day he seemed to be failing. Not critically, but getting worse instead of getting better.
Late that night he started breathing very heavily and we called the emergency vet. We took him in immediately and they worked on him immediately, but he was having internal bleeding by the time we got him in. (Probably starting at the time his breathing got distressed.) We could not see any medical way out; the bleeding was either directly caused by the cancer or by the drugs that were his hope against the cancer, and it was severe. We have seen the impact of surgery on dogs, and we did not want to put him through abdominal surgery knowing how likely it was that there would be no hope; his hope was always in the medication arresting the cancer, not in surgery. We held him and told him that we loved him and that he was a good dog, and the vet gave him an overdose of anesthetic, and he died painlessly and quietly.
Two weeks is about average for dogs with metastatic lung cancer. I was hoping for a reversal, and hopefully other dogs (and people, of course!) will get their reversals, as medicine improves. The morning after, I called the vet to clear our oncologist to do an autopsy on him if she thought it would help other dogs, so that she could know whether or not the medication was working. We're donating the remaining medication so that someone who cannot treat their dog because of their means may be able to. We're donating his toys to the SPCA, who are happy to take them. They can't take the meat we were using to feed him, and I haven't had the fortitude to clean out the refrigerator yet.
The house is terribly, brutally, empty without him. When Moose died, Jack still needed to be fed and loved and walked. We couldn't just stop everything. We still close doors reflexively to keep Moose from escaping, years later, because he was so good at it. (I absent-mindedly left Jack outside one day last year, and he simply went around to the back door and asked me to let him back in.) Every time I check to make sure that Jack is in the bedroom before closing the door, it's hitting me all over again. His unique brand of joy is gone from the world.
"Where do they go?" -- Temple Grandin
I don't know. I don't have any answers. But here is what I hope for: Otto is swapping escape-artist stories with Moose, and they are comparing notes on pies they have known and loved and stolen. Jack is running races with Otto, and trying to convince him that squirrels are more fun to chase than birds. Daisy and Jack are showing each other their favorite toys. Daisy and Moose are enjoying the shade and Otto and Jack are napping in sunbeams. They all get to sleep on couches whenever they want.
If you have a critter or critters, please give them extra pettins for me.
We did our best in the last few weeks to give him as easy a time as possible. We stayed on his normal routine as best as we could, giving him little walks so as not to tire him out, but still including them because he loved them very much. We fed him everything he would eat, and because his appetite was very low, we can be sure that he enjoyed everything he ate. He still got to guard the door during the day, barking at anyone who came up to it, his favorite thing. (I considered trying to lower his stress by blocking him from the door, but it was something he truly loved.) He played with toys, if not with his usual abandon, and he had started drinking water again. But he was getting thinner and thinner, by the day it seemed, even though he didn't seem to be in any distress. "Just tired and not hungry," he seemed to be saying. But not hungry is bad, especially on a day when he's getting the best part of his cycle of anti-nauseal and anti-inflammatory. The medication had brought back his appetite, for the most part, but on the last day he seemed to be failing. Not critically, but getting worse instead of getting better.
Late that night he started breathing very heavily and we called the emergency vet. We took him in immediately and they worked on him immediately, but he was having internal bleeding by the time we got him in. (Probably starting at the time his breathing got distressed.) We could not see any medical way out; the bleeding was either directly caused by the cancer or by the drugs that were his hope against the cancer, and it was severe. We have seen the impact of surgery on dogs, and we did not want to put him through abdominal surgery knowing how likely it was that there would be no hope; his hope was always in the medication arresting the cancer, not in surgery. We held him and told him that we loved him and that he was a good dog, and the vet gave him an overdose of anesthetic, and he died painlessly and quietly.
Two weeks is about average for dogs with metastatic lung cancer. I was hoping for a reversal, and hopefully other dogs (and people, of course!) will get their reversals, as medicine improves. The morning after, I called the vet to clear our oncologist to do an autopsy on him if she thought it would help other dogs, so that she could know whether or not the medication was working. We're donating the remaining medication so that someone who cannot treat their dog because of their means may be able to. We're donating his toys to the SPCA, who are happy to take them. They can't take the meat we were using to feed him, and I haven't had the fortitude to clean out the refrigerator yet.
The house is terribly, brutally, empty without him. When Moose died, Jack still needed to be fed and loved and walked. We couldn't just stop everything. We still close doors reflexively to keep Moose from escaping, years later, because he was so good at it. (I absent-mindedly left Jack outside one day last year, and he simply went around to the back door and asked me to let him back in.) Every time I check to make sure that Jack is in the bedroom before closing the door, it's hitting me all over again. His unique brand of joy is gone from the world.
"Where do they go?" -- Temple Grandin
I don't know. I don't have any answers. But here is what I hope for: Otto is swapping escape-artist stories with Moose, and they are comparing notes on pies they have known and loved and stolen. Jack is running races with Otto, and trying to convince him that squirrels are more fun to chase than birds. Daisy and Jack are showing each other their favorite toys. Daisy and Moose are enjoying the shade and Otto and Jack are napping in sunbeams. They all get to sleep on couches whenever they want.
If you have a critter or critters, please give them extra pettins for me.
Click to view