Bliss’ health had been steadily declining since Thanksgiving. One by one, we saw her lose the things she loved: playing catch with her stuffed toys, going on walks, and even rolling over on her back to receive belly rubs. Just getting up and down became increasingly difficult and painful for her, and maneuvering stairs was out of the question. We fashioned a make-shift sedan chair out of a cardboard box so we could carry her up and down the stairs to our backyard. She hated it.
Still, her appetite was good, and her spirit was intact. It was hard seeing her body turn on her. She still wanted to do all of her fun Bliss things, but they only caused her pain and frustration.
We tried new pain medication. It helped a little, but not much. She cried all day and all night. I moved to the couch and stayed with her every night so my husband could get some sleep, but she could be heard all throughout the house. It was physically and emotionally draining for all of us.
Then on Sunday at about 3:00 am, she started panting. The panting turned to whining which turned to crying which turned to something I could only describe as screaming. It was horrible. I tried comforting her, but nothing worked. I sat helpless as my little girl endured something that must have been excruciating. I gave her an extra dose of her pain medication, though she wasn’t due for another 12 hours. It eventually seemed to take the edge off and she dozed off into a fitful sleep.
We knew then it was time.
Monday morning, I gave her extra pain medication to help make her as comfortable as possible, and made an appointment for that evening. I’m still not sure how I found the strength to make that phone call.
Bliss and I settled in for a “girl day” of bad TV and good snacks. She had as many cookies and Greenies as she wanted, and about an hour before the vet arrived she had another dose of pain medication along with her favorite dish: scrambled eggs and shredded cheese. My husband arrived home in plenty of time to give her lots of attention and ear rubs. She was having one of her “good” days; clearly still uncomfortable, but not in the kind of pain we’d seen before. Of course, this was probably due to all the extra medication, but it was making it extra hard to see our decision through. We wavered, but then remembered the screaming, and knew we had to do it.
The vet arrived right on time. He was kind, compassionate, and everything you’d want from a vet in that situation, but nothing could buffer us from the horror and grief of watching that lovely creature, our beloved friend, companion, and family member, slip away from us. That memory will haunt us forever.
And now there is a gaping hole in our family, one that can never be filled. Sure, we could get another dog, maybe even another Keeshond. But Bliss was a once-in-a-lifetime dog. There was something about her that, as my husband said, transcended “dog.” So smart, so happy, so funny and good-natured, and everyone who met her recognized it immediately. Not a mean bone in that body. Never once growled or snapped. Always happy to go where you’re going. Always happy to be where you are. And always, always providing unconditional love. There’s no getting Bliss back.
We already miss her terribly. No longer does she herald our arrival home with her “inside voice” of baroos and howls. No more jumping on our son’s bed to gleefully awaken him. No more bows and high-fives. And no more soft sighs when she settles in for the night, the sigh that lets us know that all is well in the world.
We can’t possibly repay her for all the joy she’s given us. And the one small consolation we have for deciding to end her life – especially when she was having a good day – is that we stopped the pain. We opted to make it harder on us so it would be easier on her. We removed all possibility of repeating that horrific, painful night and let her go in peace and comfort.
I’m not exactly sure where dogs go and what memories they take with them. But my hope is that, wherever she is, she’ll remember that her last day on earth was stormy and wet, but she was dry and cozy at my feet. I hope she’ll remember all the treats, and all the pets, and the great big bowl of eggs and cheese brought right to her. I hope she remembers us, at the last moments, holding her and telling her she was a good girl, good girl, good girl.
And I hope, above all, she’ll remember that she was loved.
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