The most difficult decision

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.