The Passing of Pets and People
All good dogs must die, yet the fate of furry friends can be bittersweet or tragic. Without the aid of voice to plead their case, two-legged caretakers must advocate on their behalf. And in times of crisis our humanness is measured by how we treat our animals.
It was about a month ago that our pal Casey the Australian Cattle Dog was put to sleep. The decision was a tough one. His caretaker Jean (who is no stranger to troubled dogs) tried everything from treatments to training to help his nervous condition, yet Casey only got worse. His irrational fears escalated into full-blown aggression. After a particularly scary episode in which Jean suffered multiple bites and bruises, she decided it was too much. Casey could not be rehabilitated and no one in his/her right mind would volunteer to adopt a crazed, unpredictable dog. And for Casey to spend the rest of his life in a kennel just wouldn’t be fair. So, with full support of family, friends, trainer, breeder and vet, Casey was put to rest.
A few days after the sad occasion, Jean showed up with a bag overflowing with rawhide bones and plush squeaky toys. She didn’t want any tangible reminders. Daisy, on the other hand, without a shred of remorse for her deceased friend selfishly tore into the inheritance. Jean and I cracked open a bottle of champagne and recalled: the first time we took Casey and Daisy for a road trip, at dog beach when Casey pissed on someone’s lounge chair, when Daisy nabbed a bag of Cheerios from a cooler and she and Casey took off like bank robbers to consume the stolen loot. As a herding dog, Casey was an asset. During off-leash excursions if Daisy got lost chasing a scent, Casey would find her and hustle her back onto the trail. Yep, lots of shared memories to cherish.
Well loved and sadly missed, Casey cannot be replaced. However, Jean is determined to fill the void. This past month, she launched a campaign to find her next dog--a roly-poly Boston Terrier pup.
And while Jean hunts for hounds, it’s my turn to deal with loss. At the moment I’m sitting in a hospital in Vancouver B.C. during shift change. My 89-year-old mom, who is (as they call it) in the active dying stage, has slipped into a fitful drug-induced slumber. On the other side of the useless privacy curtain, night nurses make the rounds, check charts, and introduce themselves to conscious patients. I’ve tuned the portable radio I brought to easy listening music; helps drown the sounds of wet bowel movements, gastric explosions, murmurs and moans. Four patients to a room in various stages of disease and/or dying is not conducive to spending quality time with loved ones. And as much as I do love my mom, I wish her exit out of this earthly plain could be swift and easy.
I can barely breathe what with the stench of shit wafting through the curtain. The moaning woman has worked up to a high-pitched nonsense song. “Shut the fuck up,” mumbles the soon-to-be-discharged diabetic next to her. I crank up “Hotel California” on the radio and bury my nose into the fresh-cut lavender sitting on the bedside table. Day twelve and counting . . . . In many ways, dear dog Casey had a more sane and peaceful ending than dear old Pearl must endure. Funny how even when it comes to dying, it’s all about the dog.
