Goodbye, little Bliss.

Posted on 22. Jan, 2010 by Keri in Dog Bliss News

We said goodbye to Bliss on Monday.

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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Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Tags: Featured

View the original article here

Goodbye, little Bliss.

Posted on 22. Jan, 2010 by Keri in Dog Bliss News

We said goodbye to Bliss on Monday.

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.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Tags: Featured

View the original article here

Bagging it: The long, slow goodbye

This morning I woke up realizing that this blog and my 14-year-old Sheltie are in the same place: Dying gracefully, and not in any real hurry to go.

The story on our blog moving  you know already. The story of Drew … here you go:

Drew, a/k/a Drewbie a/k/a The Drewbinator, came into my life about a decade ago, after the death of my 15-year-old Sheltie, Andy.

I had figured Andy for the last of a long line of Shelties.  While I had shared my life with Shelties for many years and had run the local Sheltie rescue for a time, I had long since migrated towards the sporting breeds by the time Andy died. But then I met Drew.

He’d come back to my friend Tami, who bred him, after bouncing through a couple of homes for reasons no one could ever figure, since Drew was — and is — perfect in all ways. He’s friendly to all (not a given in this breed, which tends to distrust strangers), beautiful and well-mannered. I was visiting Tami when Drewbie danced over to me, put two perfect white paws on my knee and looked me right in the eyes.

“Who is this?” I said.

“Drew. I need to find a home for him,” said Tami.

“You just did,” I said.

***

Drew hasn’t set a paw wrong since. He has charmed every person who has ever met him, behaved beautifully in every situation and been a healthy, happy and well-loved member of the family here since the day he arrived. The worst health problem he has had until now is going deaf. That happened so gradually I can’t even tell you for sure when it happened. Drew is so bright and observant that although I guessed he was hard of hearing, I had no idea that he was completely deaf until he went to stay with my friend Susan Fox while I was on the national book tour. In his own home, Drewbie could “fake it.” In a new environment, however, his disability was more obvious. Not that it mattered to him and everyone who loves him … which is to say, everyone he meets.

About a month ago, Drew started getting picky about his eating, and his thirst increased. After a couple rounds of veterinary visits and diagnostic rule-outs, the only thing left was bad news: Kidney failure. Terminal.

The grim diagnosis came on the day when another 14-year-old Sheltie died, one I’d written about in relation to the idea of home hospice for pets to sustain a high quality life for those who can be treated but not cured. The day Savannah crossed the Rainbow Bridge, Drew took her place on the riverbank.

So far, so good. Drew gets IV fluids at home twice a day, and an appetite stimulant to get him to eat a little more. After a couple of days the fluids had a profound impact and now Drew is feeling very, very good, and although still very picky about what he eats, will happily eat enough chicken, pasta, tripe and peaches to prevent death from starvation. He doesn’t mind getting hydrated at all, especially since it’s a chance to be the absolute center of my attention for 15-20 minutes twice a day. The IV bags hang from my dining room chandelier, and I’m feeling optimistic enough about Drewbie to order a case of supplies.

It’s a sweet time for us both, really.

I don’t know how long this site will be here, and I don’t know how long Drew will be here, either. For now, that’s just fine with me.

In the meantime, the Lorem ipsum is up on my new personal site, and blogging of a more personal and generalized nature will start there soon.

Top image: Drew from a few years ago. Bottom image: Drew this week, with the IV bag hanging from the chandelier behind him.

View the original article here

Bagging it: The long, slow goodbye

This morning I woke up realizing that this blog and my 14-year-old Sheltie are in the same place: Dying gracefully, and not in any real hurry to go.

The story on our blog moving  you know already. The story of Drew … here you go:

Drew, a/k/a Drewbie a/k/a The Drewbinator, came into my life about a decade ago, after the death of my 15-year-old Sheltie, Andy.

I had figured Andy for the last of a long line of Shelties.  While I had shared my life with Shelties for many years and had run the local Sheltie rescue for a time, I had long since migrated towards the sporting breeds by the time Andy died. But then I met Drew.

He’d come back to my friend Tami, who bred him, after bouncing through a couple of homes for reasons no one could ever figure, since Drew was — and is — perfect in all ways. He’s friendly to all (not a given in this breed, which tends to distrust strangers), beautiful and well-mannered. I was visiting Tami when Drewbie danced over to me, put two perfect white paws on my knee and looked me right in the eyes.

“Who is this?” I said.

“Drew. I need to find a home for him,” said Tami.

“You just did,” I said.

***

Drew hasn’t set a paw wrong since. He has charmed every person who has ever met him, behaved beautifully in every situation and been a healthy, happy and well-loved member of the family here since the day he arrived. The worst health problem he has had until now is going deaf. That happened so gradually I can’t even tell you for sure when it happened. Drew is so bright and observant that although I guessed he was hard of hearing, I had no idea that he was completely deaf until he went to stay with my friend Susan Fox while I was on the national book tour. In his own home, Drewbie could “fake it.” In a new environment, however, his disability was more obvious. Not that it mattered to him and everyone who loves him … which is to say, everyone he meets.

About a month ago, Drew started getting picky about his eating, and his thirst increased. After a couple rounds of veterinary visits and diagnostic rule-outs, the only thing left was bad news: Kidney failure. Terminal.

The grim diagnosis came on the day when another 14-year-old Sheltie died, one I’d written about in relation to the idea of home hospice for pets to sustain a high quality life for those who can be treated but not cured. The day Savannah crossed the Rainbow Bridge, Drew took her place on the riverbank.

So far, so good. Drew gets IV fluids at home twice a day, and an appetite stimulant to get him to eat a little more. After a couple of days the fluids had a profound impact and now Drew is feeling very, very good, and although still very picky about what he eats, will happily eat enough chicken, pasta, tripe and peaches to prevent death from starvation. He doesn’t mind getting hydrated at all, especially since it’s a chance to be the absolute center of my attention for 15-20 minutes twice a day. The IV bags hang from my dining room chandelier, and I’m feeling optimistic enough about Drewbie to order a case of supplies.

It’s a sweet time for us both, really.

I don’t know how long this site will be here, and I don’t know how long Drew will be here, either. For now, that’s just fine with me.

In the meantime, the Lorem ipsum is up on my new personal site, and blogging of a more personal and generalized nature will start there soon.

Top image: Drew from a few years ago. Bottom image: Drew this week, with the IV bag hanging from the chandelier behind him.

View the original article here

Goodbye, little Bliss.

Posted on 22. Jan, 2010 by Keri in Dog Bliss News

We said goodbye to Bliss on Monday.

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.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Tags: Featured

View the original article here

Goodbye, little Bliss.

Posted on 22. Jan, 2010 by Keri in Dog Bliss News

We said goodbye to Bliss on Monday.

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.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Tags: Featured

View the original article here

Goodbye, little Bliss.

Posted on 22. Jan, 2010 by Keri in Dog Bliss News

We said goodbye to Bliss on Monday.

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.

No related posts.

Related posts brought to you by Yet Another Related Posts Plugin.

Tags: Featured

View the original article here

The holiday pet phenomenon: Merry Christmas and good-bye

Now that the holidays are over, all the egg nog is drunk and all the decorations have been put away, I wanted to post a few words about a phenomenon that is often talked about in veterinary circles, but I have never heard mentioned in polite company: The shocking uptick in euthanasia that happens around the holidays.

Everyone has their own reasons for loving or hating the holidays — you may love Aunt Mildred’s pumpkin pie, but hate the sloppy kiss you weird Uncle Fester plants on your cheek.  Doesn’t he linger just a bit too long?  (And why does he always smell like soup?) You may love the twinking lights and family gatherings, but hate the crass commercialism that sometimes can drown out the carolers.

But if you ask a veterinarian (and they are truthful), I would bet the majority would report a depressing increase in the number of pets they have had to euthanise as the end of the year draws near.

I first noticed this phenomenon as a resident in a busy, urban ER. After what seemed like the eleventieth euthanasia of my shift, I remarked to a more experienced colleague, “What’s up with all the dying, already?! I feel like the angel of death!”  My more experienced friend just smiled a wan little smile and said “It’s the holidays — happens every year. We just have a die-off.”

Every hospital I have been in over the holidays (almost always an ER) has had staff that have talked about the trend. It seems to hit the technicians especially hard, as they are often the ones right there with the patients and interacting with them the most. The techs also tend to be younger, and I think a little more susceptible to emotional trauma.

But it takes its toll on all of us — it is supposed to be a time of year filled with joy and Roast Beast and here we are, killing everything that walks through the door. It definitely gets depressing.

I have a few pet theories on this soul-sucking trend, but before I share those with you in a companion piece, I would like to see why you, tiny reader, think that more people elect to have their animals euthanized as the months grow colder and we tumble towards the holidays.

View the original article here