I awake to the sounds of
birds singing on a warm and sunny spring day. I have the day off, so I
snuggle deeper into the blankets and turn to look out my bedroom window.
I'm relishing the lie-in
when reality strikes like an unexpected balloon pop. We are taking our
dog Nelson into the vet today. And it will be his last visit.
I squeeze my eyes tight
but the tears find their way out anyway. Although I have had dogs my entire
life, I have never been through this particular experience before. My
husband offers to take him in alone, but I feel an obligation to be there with
Nelson during his final moments.
Nelson was not a young
dog when he came to live with us. No
one is certain of exactly how old he is, but we gage it to be somewhere around
16, which makes him a very elderly, senior citizen. Most people can’t help but smile when they see him. He is a mixed breed, half boarder
collie and black lab. His genetics
have endowed him with long black hair a shaggy tail and a rather rotund body, which
make his legs appear small and stumpy.
His arrival in our home
was unexpected. A good friend was moving back to England and asked if we could
keep him and then send him over after the necessary arrangements were
made. Unfortunately for my friend,
Nelson grew on us and in the end we agreed it would be easier for him to stay with
us as he was already moving into his senior years.
Thinking that he would
probably only live for another two or three years, we thought his time with us
would be short. He proved us wrong
and almost six years later, he is still with us.
Nelson became famous in
our neighborhood for being the dog that could eat anything and wake up the next
morning alive and well.
One day, he disappeared
and came back hours later with bright eyes and what could pass as a huge
dog-like smile. But it didn’t take
long before the barfing began. We
rushed him to the vet where he was put through a battery of tests, which
revealed nothing. The next day, we received a worried phone call from the vet saying
we should come quick as it looked like the end was near. My daughter and I rushed over and found
him lying listlessly in his kennel.
When he saw us however, he jumped up, wagged his tail and would not stop
trying to lick us. To our relief,
he was just depressed, and didn’t understand why we had abandoned him. His official diagnosis was garbage
guts. After some discussion and
investigation, we could only assume that he had found the grease bin over at
the golf course restaurant and indulged himself to his hearts desire.
Nelson loved food. Anything passed the edible test in
Nelson’s mind. On another
occasion, we went for a walk out in the woods near our home. We had gotten used to Nelson’s way of
walking, which tended to be very slow and with complete disregard to our
repeated calls. We would often
lose track of him but never really worried about it because Nelson would usually
trail along behind us pausing here and there to sniff and then pee. This time however, he had stopped completely. We were up ahead quite a ways, so we
stopped to locate him. He was
hunched over something, and it looked like he was jerking his head forwards and
backwards, like a chicken. With dawning dread, I realized he was trying to
swallow something large and bulky.
Remembering the garbage guts fiasco, I turned and ran screaming his
name, across the field. (His grease bin binge had cost us over $800 in vet
bills). When I got to him, I saw
that he had a chunk of fur protruding from his mouth and he was desperately
trying to swallow it. “It” being
something like a dead rabbit or some other poor fury creature. I hesitated at first, because like most
normal people, I didn’t want to play tug of war with my dog over an animal carcass. But he wouldn’t stop. Eyes wide, looking at me, he continued
his attempt at swallowing it whole, like a big black furry boa
constrictor. Knowing that I had to
do it, I took hold of the fur and pulled it out. If a dog could look
disappointed, I think Nelson gave that impression that day.
I’m assuming his
undiscriminating diet was one of the reasons behind his rather distinct
aroma. Nelson stunk. This stench followed him around like
smoke from a burning stick. We
tried everything we could to curb the smell: Home baths, trips to the river. Even professional grooming only kept the smell away for a
week or so. This and his penchant
for eating everything and anything garnered him many nicknames including Smelly
Nelly, Big Belly Nelly, and Smelson to name a few.
There were other quirky
sides to him as well. Like the way
he would back out of a room instead of turning around. Or, his on-again, off-again fear of our
tile floors. He would emerge from
the garage and stand paralyzed with fear on the area rug, looking out at the
tile like it was a sea of ice, ready to consume him. These actions were all very bizarre to us but for reasons
known only to him, they made sense.
He never quite seemed to
appreciate all we did for him, and in fact, once ran off to the neighbors at 3
a.m. They were awakened to scratches
and desperate barks from the front door.
When they opened it, Nelson walked right in and settled in for the
night.
Despite all of his
idiosyncrasies, or maybe because of them, I loved him. He was my friend. He was the crazy grandpa who came to live
with us.
Last year, he began to
slow down, and the fur around his mouth and ears began to turn white. He developed a harsh, raspy breath and
we took to calling him Darth Vader.
His back legs became stiff and it became harder and harder for him to get
up and walk. We also suspected
that he was having seizures and experiencing some dog-like dementia, where he
would often just stop and stare off into space.
My husband tried to start
conversations about ending his pain, but I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to think that he was
nearing the end of his life.
Despite all my sarcastic jokes about Nelson being immortal and
out-living us all, I wanted him to stay with us.
A trip to the vet
confirmed that his health was failing, and that he had developed numerous teeth
infections and probably had many other issues going on. He was suffering.
It takes me two weeks,
but I finally agree to set the date.
The appointment isn’t
until later in the afternoon so I spend the day with a heavy heart and a lump in
my throat. I try to stay busy but
it stays with me all day.
Finally its time and we
load him into the truck and take him in. He comes willingly, and I
feel like the worst person in the world. A Judas. I am the ultimate
betrayer. We bring him into the
room and the veterinarian speaks kindly to us about the process: They will give
him a sedative that will relax him. After he settles they will administer the
cocktail of drugs that will slowly shut down his organs and he will drift off
peacefully. I cannot control myself and the tears come unabashed. I
stroke his fur and whisper into his ear as he takes his final breaths.
The world is a blur as we
spend a few more minutes alone with him. I rush out of the room and crawl
into the truck like a zombie. Regret pours over me and I wish. I wish
with all my heart that Nelson could have spoken to me. I wish he could
have said that it was all right, that he was ready to go. But I will
never know, and that will stay with me forever.
At home, the silence of
his absence is deafening. I ask myself why I put myself through this. Why I always find a reason to have a
pet when I know I will out live it.
My conclusion is rather selfish.
The happiness a pet brings into our lives is worth the pain we feel when
they are gone. Thanks Nelson. You were an exceptional dog.
