“It’s Just a Dog”

 

Romeo (right) with main squeeze Coqui in 2006

I’m sure we have all heard someone make this assertion, usually when we ourselves are frantic over the health and well-being of our treasured pets.  Many times, the person making such pronouncements does not own pets, or if they do, they are the “only in the backyard and NEVER in my house” sorts.

For the past six months, I have watched my next-door neighbor disprove that just-a-dog attitude.  For the past three months, I have been actively involved in the care of a failing dog who over time became deaf, half-blind, and incontinent due to renal failure.  He had a cough that racked his well-muscled, hairless little body. The veterinarian could only guess at the cause without conducting hundreds of dollars of tests. 

My friend and I began talking about euthanasia about a month ago.  She made me promise to tell her the truth when I thought the time had come to put the poor animal out of his misery.  The truth?  Does anyone really know for sure?  But I promised I would give my honest opinion each time she asked.

Although the dog’s intense anxiety kept him up at night barking at the closet door or running up and down the stairs whimpering; and although my friend is severely sleep deprived because of Romeo’s night terrors, every time she tried a new drug – Xanax, Prozac, anti-biotics --  he would improve for a day, maybe two, and she would lose her resolve.  She convinced herself that the quality of Romeo’s life was still good because he would calm down during long walks and he still had his voracious appetite for doggie treats. 

My friend was conflicted by the idea that she might be making the decision to put Romeo down, not for him, but for her own sake.  Her productivity at work was slipping badly.  She ate very little.  And she was getting little to no sleep. Just like a parent of a human child, she could not bring herself to accept the fact that things were getting worse by the day, and she refused to hear me when I told her the dog had to be in pain.

Tuesday night, Romeo was a basket case.  When morning finally arrived, my friend called the vet, made an appointment and decided, alone, that it was time.  However, when she came home early from work to get the dog for the appointment, he had once again rallied.  He wasn’t coughing,  He wasn’t pacing.  He seemed happy.  He had, however, left puddles all over the house.

I knew when she called that she had fallen into another pocket of false hope.  I knew she didn’t want to hear what I had to say, and I was determined not to be the one who made the decision for her.  It had to be hers and hers alone.

That’s a rough role to play.  I did insist she keep the appointment, and she did. 

The next phone call was gut-wrenching.  She was crying and terribly conflicted.  She wanted the vet to tell her what he would do.  Of course, he wouldn’t.  What he did say was that it was reasonable to euthanize the dog at this time; that he would refuse to do it if he thought it was too early.  On the other hand, he could do $300 worth of new tests to determine if the dog’s heart was the cause of the cough.  If so, heart medication could extend the dog’s life for around 8 months.  If not, the cough was from the lungs.  That could mean lung cancer, since the anti-biotics for an assumed respiratory infection hadn’t worked.

“Lezlie, what should I do?”

Still, she wanted someone else to make a decision.

Instead, I walked her through the pros and cons, the ifs the ands and the buts.  Then I asked if the possibility of extending the dog’s life for up to 8 months was something she was prepared to handle, because none of these tests and medications was going to do anything about Romeo’s severe anxiety.  And then I asked this question:

“What would you be telling me if the dog in question was Coqui (my dog)?”

She said, “Ok.  I think I know what I’m going to do.”

In order to try to make peace with her decision, she went ahead and let the vet conduct the tests.  These tests required sedation, and the vet had to use so much of the sedative to calm Romeo down, he feared he would die from an overdose. 

It turned out the cough was not heart-related, but there was a lot of fluid in the dog’s lungs.  The vet also determined there was pretty severe arthritis in the hind-quarters, which were indisputably painful.

When she finally came home last night, she came home alone.  She is inconsolable and unable to go to work for the rest of the week.  When I called and asked how she was doing this morning, she remarked at how surreal it was to come downstairs to an empty house for the first time in almost 14 years. She can’t stop crying.

The next time you are tempted to say “it’s just a dog” to anyone, please remember this story.