My little guy was a 14 year old chihuahua. Brave...oh my was
he brave. And with such an adventurous spirit. He'd been healthy his entire
life, but the last three saw drastic changes. Blindness. Partial hearing loss.
Two tumors removed. His gait also went through a change, subtle at first. The
first year saw merely a strange little step here and there. Another goes by and
it's impossible to make it up and down steps. This final year, he barely left
his bed. I also began to notice a subtle sort of confusion. Boo would
pause at random points, his "gaze" locked onto nothing. His gait
became even more unsteady. Two nights ago, he stopped eating and would not get
out of his bed. When I lifted him, he was as limp as a rag doll. I thought
perhaps he would go peacefully that night, but he held on. The next day I took
him to the vet.
He seemed more alert than the previous night, but on the
trip to the office, I noticed how prominently his little spine stood out and
how sunken in his haunches had become. His breathing also seemed more labored
than usual, with a sort of rasping shudder at each intake of breath.
His adventurous spirit raised its head just a little once we reached the office, and he eagerly sniffed
and explored...but had to pick himself off the floor every few steps as he
stumbled and fell. The doctor said we could do an endless battery of tests. We
could also try to treat the symptoms as a simple infection and try to make him
as comfortable as possible, but when I asked her what she would do, she said
something that really resonated with me. She asked what was the one thing I
could say about Boo. About his personality and what made him…well…him. I told
her that he was the bravest dog I've ever seen and loved and embraced life.
Then she asked if that was still who he was. I thought about him as he is now.
Jumping at every noise. Too weak to explore beyond the confines of his dog bed.
Barely being able to take two steps without collapsing. Yes, he was still
brave, but his little body was so ravaged and tired. Perhaps we could have
treated the nausea, given him fluids to counteract the dehydration, and given
him medicines to manage the pain, but the legs would never regain their
mobility. He would spend the rest of his remaining days (which I did not
believe would be long) confined to his bed…not seeing, not hearing. If I did
that, I would be doing it out of selfishness, and because I didn’t want to let
him go.
Making the decision was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I
sat in that room endlessly repeating “I don’t know what to do” and crying until
my voice became hoarse. I called friends. I called family. But once the choice
was made, I felt…no, I KNEW it was the right one.
They gave him the sedative, and I held him in my arms until
he fell asleep. I told him I loved him. Petted and scratched all of his
favorite places. Whispered how we would see each other again. Sang him the
silly song I had made with his name all those years ago. The happy song I would
hum and sing to him during our quiet, cuddling moments. And then I let him go…
If you can hear me, my brave little man, I want you to know
I meant every word.
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