ginger
As of today, it has been three months since I had to put my dog to sleep. Ginger was sixteen years old, and it was a long time coming but up until the moment she died it seemed unbelievable that she could die. I had this almost childish certainty that her death would always be in the future and never the present. I was sure, too, that we wouldn't have to put her to sleep. I'd been nursing her for so long. I woke up every morning, weekday and weekend, at 7am to let her out and give her a pill smothered in peanut butter. Then from there on out, it was making sure she went outside every two hours if she was awake. Sometimes waking her up to make sure she went outside, because while cleaning up her accidents happened quite a bit, we tried to avoid it as much as possible.
The last few months, her back legs just started to fail. She'd fall over and not be able to get up, which terrified her. It was agonizing to see her face when she knew something was wrong but she was so determined to get up and it just wasn't working. I spent every waking moment with an ear out for her feet scrabbling or thump from when she fell. And she had lost her hearing some years before, with her vision slowly following. At the end, she could still see but we weren't quite sure how much. Naturally, with the bad vision and the low mobility, she'd walk into a corner or behind a chair and simply not be able to extricate herself. We'd find her trapped in corners quite a bit.
She had always been a stubborn, independent ball of energy, but with age she learned to cuddle. Fourteen years of her life, she tolerated cuddling but only for a few seconds at a time, and then came the last two years where I think she needed the touchstone. Even then, cuddling was a rare gift for us. She'd put up with it for perhaps a minute or two, and then she wanted to move!
We had to put her to sleep on February 28th, which was a Tuesday. I remember because it was Sunday that she had what we took to calling a bad day. She had bad days every so often, days when her legs worked less than normal. She'd injure one and just not be able to walk at all. Sunday was a very bad day. Her front legs still worked fine, so she could move, but not forward. She'd sort of spin around desperately trying to get her back legs up and just not be capable of it. On a normal bad day, we'd help her up and she could walk around again. It was just the process of getting up after a fall that she had trouble with.
On that Sunday, she couldn't walk more than three to four steps without falling over. I was near tears, trying to get her to just give up and lay down to rest. I knew she wasn't doing herself any favors trying and trying and exhausting herself. But my dog was stubborn, and determined and she absolutely refused to give up. She'd spin and spin and just keep spinning. After half a dozen times of hearing her fall over, and running to pick her up, I finally gave up. I set her down in the living room hoping that if she was with everyone--she loved to be in the presence of people--eventually she would wear herself out and relax. It didn't happen. She kept spinning and pooped while spinning, so she actually smeared it all over herself and the carpet.
So I gave her a bath, which at this point involved getting in there with her and holding her on my lap since she absolutely could not support herself in the shower at all, front legs or back legs. It wasn't fun for anyone involved, and holding twenty five pounds of dead weight (poop-covered dead weight, as well) is exhausting physically. I was too tired to dry her, so I left that to Mom while I bathed myself.
...since I was covered in dog shit.
After she was dry, she finally gave up. Finally. I put her in her bed (which was in my room, and beside my computer chair, so I was right there to keep an eye on her and keep her company at all times) and she spun around a few times desperately trying to get up, but after a minute or two, she just relaxed and rested. She was miserable and unhappy and it brought me to tears a few times, but I thought it was just another bad day and with rest, her back legs would be a bit better for Monday.
They weren't. In the middle of the night, she tried to get up, and spun, this time actually managing to spin herself over her bed and trapping herself under my bed. She'd peed in her sleep, under my bed, but we went through the normal morning routine. If anything, her back legs were worse. I had to support her walking, and while she was outside, and while she was drinking water, and she had no energy. I went to work, and cried at work, and when I came home she was the same. She'd spent the entire day lying in her bed listlessly. She didn't want to eat (and unlike normal, no amount of treats would encourage her), and she didn't really want to drink either.
I think one of the worst experiences of my life was just seeing how miserable she was. I got her when I was ten years old, and I literally can't remember not having her, and I'd never seen her so listless. So completely without her stubbornness.
My mother and I talked a lot about what we were going to do if she didn't get better. I still had hope, but I knew it was unlikely. Our worst fear had always been that we'd have to put her to sleep, because she was so terrified of the vet's office. But it was unfair to her if she couldn't move, and wouldn't drink and wouldn't eat.
So we said, tomorrow. We'll see how it goes tomorrow. And on Tuesday morning, she was worse. She wouldn't even try to move, just laid in her bed with dull eyes. She couldn't be encouraged to drink water, much less eat. And she couldn't stand at all. We had to hold her legs in place when we put her outside. So in the morning, we talked and said that Mom would check on her when she came home from lunch and she'd let me know how it went.
It didn't go. She called me directly after and asked me what I wanted to do. So I made the call. We'd take her to the vet and see what she said... but we knew what she'd say. I spent the next two hours at work crying off and on, and then my boss let me go home early to spent time with her.
For the first time in her life, she let me cuddle her without wiggling to get down. I spent two hours just holding her. Smelling her and kissing her and talking to her. She sighed every so often, and rubbed her head against my shoulder, but mostly just breathed and let me pet her.
Then it was time, and Dad came back to my room and we took her to the vet. Mom and my brother met us there, because we all knew what was happening. I wish it had gone differently, because on the way to the vet, Ginger started to realize where we were going, and she got scared. She scratched at me a little when we went inside, and in the lobby, but when we went back to a room, she went crazy.
She was still exhausted, so sometimes she relaxed, but she fought me like crazy to get down. She wiggled and bucked and she scratched me quite a bit. I sobbed while I begged her to please relax. My mom and brother sobbed along with me. When the vet came in and she said it was time, that if Ginger couldn't get to her water bowl on her own, wouldn't drink or eat, then it was kinder to put her to sleep, I howled.
Then they gave her a sedative to make her sleep so she wouldn't be aware when they actually gave her the shot to stop her heart, I asked for time alone with her and said my goodbyes. I kissed her and cuddled her and thanked her for being the best dog I could've imagined. And then I told them they could come back in and I held her on my lap while they put her to sleep.
Later, my brother told me he was proud of how brave I was, to hold her while she died. I didn't feel brave. I felt like I was killing her, and she was scared and I'd made the decision to do this to her--because I had. I'd taken care of her for two years while she went downhill, because I was afraid my family would think she was too much trouble if they had to do it. I'd made the decision that we needed to call the vet, and that it was time, and--that was me. I did that. I felt like I murdered her.
I know now, that I didn't. I had to force myself to remember how she was those last two days, unable to move, unwilling to try, listless and blank and miserable. She wouldn't drink and wouldn't eat. If we hadn't put her to sleep, she would have gotten even worse, gotten dehydrated and starved and died. It would've been longer and more painful for her. I know that. But it takes day after day for my heart to believe it. I believe it more now than I did then, and I know I'll believe it more as time goes on.
I still miss her like crazy. There's a giant hole in my chest that isn't getting much smaller, and it feels so unfair that I have to live the rest of my life, years upon years, and I don't get to spend it with her driving me bonkers. I adored that dog. It is unfair. But I am so grateful to her for sixteen wonderful years. I'm so lucky to have had had for that long. And I kept thinking afterwards, I'm being ridiculous, she's only a dog. But she was my dog and she was wonderful. I loved her dramatically and thoroughly and delightedly.
It took three months before I could post this--I wanted to right away, but I couldn't bear it. Even with three months distance, I'm still sobbing now. I think I needed to post it, though, because I still need to know I feel it as strongly. I've felt a little like I was used to it. My mother still cries when she talks about Ginger, and I don't. I just feel that hole, and that blankness, but maybe that's just a difference in how we grieve. We're different people, after all.
But mostly I just want to say I do feel so very, very lucky to have had her as my dog. She's worth every bit of grief, and while those last few months of taking care of her were hard, I'd go through it again and again for just another day with her.
September 13, 1994 - February 28, 2011
The last few months, her back legs just started to fail. She'd fall over and not be able to get up, which terrified her. It was agonizing to see her face when she knew something was wrong but she was so determined to get up and it just wasn't working. I spent every waking moment with an ear out for her feet scrabbling or thump from when she fell. And she had lost her hearing some years before, with her vision slowly following. At the end, she could still see but we weren't quite sure how much. Naturally, with the bad vision and the low mobility, she'd walk into a corner or behind a chair and simply not be able to extricate herself. We'd find her trapped in corners quite a bit.
She had always been a stubborn, independent ball of energy, but with age she learned to cuddle. Fourteen years of her life, she tolerated cuddling but only for a few seconds at a time, and then came the last two years where I think she needed the touchstone. Even then, cuddling was a rare gift for us. She'd put up with it for perhaps a minute or two, and then she wanted to move!
We had to put her to sleep on February 28th, which was a Tuesday. I remember because it was Sunday that she had what we took to calling a bad day. She had bad days every so often, days when her legs worked less than normal. She'd injure one and just not be able to walk at all. Sunday was a very bad day. Her front legs still worked fine, so she could move, but not forward. She'd sort of spin around desperately trying to get her back legs up and just not be capable of it. On a normal bad day, we'd help her up and she could walk around again. It was just the process of getting up after a fall that she had trouble with.
On that Sunday, she couldn't walk more than three to four steps without falling over. I was near tears, trying to get her to just give up and lay down to rest. I knew she wasn't doing herself any favors trying and trying and exhausting herself. But my dog was stubborn, and determined and she absolutely refused to give up. She'd spin and spin and just keep spinning. After half a dozen times of hearing her fall over, and running to pick her up, I finally gave up. I set her down in the living room hoping that if she was with everyone--she loved to be in the presence of people--eventually she would wear herself out and relax. It didn't happen. She kept spinning and pooped while spinning, so she actually smeared it all over herself and the carpet.
So I gave her a bath, which at this point involved getting in there with her and holding her on my lap since she absolutely could not support herself in the shower at all, front legs or back legs. It wasn't fun for anyone involved, and holding twenty five pounds of dead weight (poop-covered dead weight, as well) is exhausting physically. I was too tired to dry her, so I left that to Mom while I bathed myself.
...since I was covered in dog shit.
After she was dry, she finally gave up. Finally. I put her in her bed (which was in my room, and beside my computer chair, so I was right there to keep an eye on her and keep her company at all times) and she spun around a few times desperately trying to get up, but after a minute or two, she just relaxed and rested. She was miserable and unhappy and it brought me to tears a few times, but I thought it was just another bad day and with rest, her back legs would be a bit better for Monday.
They weren't. In the middle of the night, she tried to get up, and spun, this time actually managing to spin herself over her bed and trapping herself under my bed. She'd peed in her sleep, under my bed, but we went through the normal morning routine. If anything, her back legs were worse. I had to support her walking, and while she was outside, and while she was drinking water, and she had no energy. I went to work, and cried at work, and when I came home she was the same. She'd spent the entire day lying in her bed listlessly. She didn't want to eat (and unlike normal, no amount of treats would encourage her), and she didn't really want to drink either.
I think one of the worst experiences of my life was just seeing how miserable she was. I got her when I was ten years old, and I literally can't remember not having her, and I'd never seen her so listless. So completely without her stubbornness.
My mother and I talked a lot about what we were going to do if she didn't get better. I still had hope, but I knew it was unlikely. Our worst fear had always been that we'd have to put her to sleep, because she was so terrified of the vet's office. But it was unfair to her if she couldn't move, and wouldn't drink and wouldn't eat.
So we said, tomorrow. We'll see how it goes tomorrow. And on Tuesday morning, she was worse. She wouldn't even try to move, just laid in her bed with dull eyes. She couldn't be encouraged to drink water, much less eat. And she couldn't stand at all. We had to hold her legs in place when we put her outside. So in the morning, we talked and said that Mom would check on her when she came home from lunch and she'd let me know how it went.
It didn't go. She called me directly after and asked me what I wanted to do. So I made the call. We'd take her to the vet and see what she said... but we knew what she'd say. I spent the next two hours at work crying off and on, and then my boss let me go home early to spent time with her.
For the first time in her life, she let me cuddle her without wiggling to get down. I spent two hours just holding her. Smelling her and kissing her and talking to her. She sighed every so often, and rubbed her head against my shoulder, but mostly just breathed and let me pet her.
Then it was time, and Dad came back to my room and we took her to the vet. Mom and my brother met us there, because we all knew what was happening. I wish it had gone differently, because on the way to the vet, Ginger started to realize where we were going, and she got scared. She scratched at me a little when we went inside, and in the lobby, but when we went back to a room, she went crazy.
She was still exhausted, so sometimes she relaxed, but she fought me like crazy to get down. She wiggled and bucked and she scratched me quite a bit. I sobbed while I begged her to please relax. My mom and brother sobbed along with me. When the vet came in and she said it was time, that if Ginger couldn't get to her water bowl on her own, wouldn't drink or eat, then it was kinder to put her to sleep, I howled.
Then they gave her a sedative to make her sleep so she wouldn't be aware when they actually gave her the shot to stop her heart, I asked for time alone with her and said my goodbyes. I kissed her and cuddled her and thanked her for being the best dog I could've imagined. And then I told them they could come back in and I held her on my lap while they put her to sleep.
Later, my brother told me he was proud of how brave I was, to hold her while she died. I didn't feel brave. I felt like I was killing her, and she was scared and I'd made the decision to do this to her--because I had. I'd taken care of her for two years while she went downhill, because I was afraid my family would think she was too much trouble if they had to do it. I'd made the decision that we needed to call the vet, and that it was time, and--that was me. I did that. I felt like I murdered her.
I know now, that I didn't. I had to force myself to remember how she was those last two days, unable to move, unwilling to try, listless and blank and miserable. She wouldn't drink and wouldn't eat. If we hadn't put her to sleep, she would have gotten even worse, gotten dehydrated and starved and died. It would've been longer and more painful for her. I know that. But it takes day after day for my heart to believe it. I believe it more now than I did then, and I know I'll believe it more as time goes on.
I still miss her like crazy. There's a giant hole in my chest that isn't getting much smaller, and it feels so unfair that I have to live the rest of my life, years upon years, and I don't get to spend it with her driving me bonkers. I adored that dog. It is unfair. But I am so grateful to her for sixteen wonderful years. I'm so lucky to have had had for that long. And I kept thinking afterwards, I'm being ridiculous, she's only a dog. But she was my dog and she was wonderful. I loved her dramatically and thoroughly and delightedly.
It took three months before I could post this--I wanted to right away, but I couldn't bear it. Even with three months distance, I'm still sobbing now. I think I needed to post it, though, because I still need to know I feel it as strongly. I've felt a little like I was used to it. My mother still cries when she talks about Ginger, and I don't. I just feel that hole, and that blankness, but maybe that's just a difference in how we grieve. We're different people, after all.
But mostly I just want to say I do feel so very, very lucky to have had her as my dog. She's worth every bit of grief, and while those last few months of taking care of her were hard, I'd go through it again and again for just another day with her.
September 13, 1994 - February 28, 2011