on the end of a dog’s life

Burt’s death has lead me into a six month period of disinterest in writing or taking photos, which I’m only just now coming out of. At the time I refused to accept the possibility of his mortality, but as his hips locked up more frequently, as his troubles holding his bladder moved beyond being an occasional mishap, my wife knew he wouldn’t live through the winter. At the risk of becoming one of those poor saps finding meaning in anthropomorphism, I’m going to believe Burt stayed around as long as he did so as to love our two year old son, as he very quietly and unassumingly became the first irreplaceable dog in our son’s life.

Having worked with sick animals on and off for some time, I’ve grown accustomed to the occasional need for euthanasia. I’ve come across people who were holding on for dear life to the life of their pet, flippantly muttering to myself of their selfishness in allowing their animal to experience dreadful suffering in an effort to avoid letting go themselves.

Yet as I talked with the vet about Burt’s cancer that afternoon in February and requested we take him home for just one more evening before we carried out the inevitable, I found myself in just that position. Expecting him to hobble over to me after getting checked out as he had done the prior few days, and nuzzle himself into my arms while I situated him back in the car for the short ride home, my stomach bottomed out when three techs accompanied the vet in carrying out a stretcher containing our dying family dog. He was barely able to lift his head. He looked up at me a few times, panting the slightly more intense pant he developed the day before, while I fumbled him into the back seat of the car next to our son’s car seat. I struggled in positioning his mostly limp body, and questioned down to my bones whether leaving the vet for one last night with him was even remotely within the realm of the appropriate.

Burton, a lanky, shiny coated Golden Retriever, was deep red in color, with a narrow head and long snout, and a set of ears he’d perch up on his head when he sensed cookies. My wife, originally looking for a traditional stocky, blockheaded Golden, stumbled upon Burt at a retriever rescue. Having undergone hip surgery after being hit by a car, he was nicknamed “Chance” by the employees (short for “Second Chance”, or really “Last Chance”). He strolled into the front office of the rescue, and on seeing him my wife instantly knew she was going to lose her self control and be suckered into taking this wonky scrap of a dog, despite her desires to the contrary.

That was over 14 years ago.

Residences and addresses have changed, boyfriends and friends have come and gone, other dogs and random cats have arrived and left or been put down. But always, there was Burt. When we knew I would become a lot more than just a passing mile marker in my wife’s timeline, Burt began to regularly walk over and nuzzle his nose in my lap, completely uncharacteristic of him in his behavior with other males of any species. Many a night I would look at him while I rubbed his head, and he’d look back with those eyes, those endless black pools of experience. A poor sap prone to anthropomorphism, I fancied him an old soul wise beyond his years, perhaps incarnated to eventually protect our growing little family.

These memories welled up in me as I lay next to Burt by the fireplace that evening, flanked on either side by my wife and son, all of us stroking his fur while he looked around, panting. Having long lost the ability to hold his bladder, he lay on frequently-changed extra bath towels we put on top of a large set of couch cushions.

My wife fell asleep on Burt and held that position deep into the next morning, her head still laying on his chest when I came into the living room to wake her.

We left our son home with our friend, and took Burt in the very back of the station wagon to the vet’s office. I lay my hand on the side of his chest. After two vials of strong sedatives and a syringe of pentobarbital, his heart stopped beating under my fingertips. I moved my forehead away from the bridge of his snout where it had been resting, his eyes glazed over amidst one last long, sighing exhalation. His body exhibited slight postmortem twitches, and now relaxed, his bowels emptied some of their contents onto the cool stainless steel veterinary table. Death surely be not proud.

I’m not sure I could quantify how long we stayed in the vet office sitting next to him. My wife asked to save a lock of his fur, which she has since kept next to his ashes on the shelf above her computer desk in the family room. I sat petting his lifeless body, most likely more for my own comfort than for his.

The severity of my grief reaction surprised even me. At several points over the next few days, I was suddenly but privately emotional to the point of nearly vomiting. That level of loss has occurred only one other time in my life, connected with the unexpected and tragic death of my father. It was the only other time in my life I was slammed with the consciousness that never seeing someone again really meant never again, and that really, truly meant never again. It overwhelmed me to an unfathomable depth.

But that feeling faded, as has the vividness of that experience, as has the gut-wrenching quality to the grief over Burt’s death. At some point during that trip to the vet we snapped back into our space-time position, realized our son is home with our friend, dinner must be cooked, the other dogs must be fed, jobs required our presence.

Last I noticed, his food and water bowls are still on the floor next to the cabinet in the kitchen where the dog food is kept. His collar is still in the bathroom next to our son’s bucket of bath toys. I suppose it’s telling we haven’t boxed them up yet, but I’m sure that time will come.

It’s the worst part of death, really, the idea of moving on. There is the temptation to hold onto every shred of denial we can afford ourselves. In the end, we are only left with our memories and a few physical belongings, none of which can reverse what happened.