My dog is dying by inches. Always a picky eater, her interest in food is close to non-existent now. I find myself performing nutritional acrobatics in order to get a few tablespoons of matter into her disappearing form. I have moved from worrying about what’s healthy for a dog to thinking if she’ll eat it, that’s enough.
On a good day, she might agree to several bites of oatmeal laced with canine appetite stimulator – flavored high fructose corn syrup touted as irresistible to dogs. On a bad day, she might sniff at the carefully grilled bits of London broil trying to fool me with a noisy lick or two, but always inches away from the bowl to avoid accidentally touching the food with her tongue. She is living on air.
Yogurt, broth, chicken, cheese, rice, deli meats, vegetables, and yes, even dog food. Twice a day I pull out an arsenal of options in my campaign to nourish her wasted frame, coaxing, crawling, painstakingly hand feeding and applauding each tentative nibble. I am a comestible contortionist. Lying on my belly next to her dish, crawling after her with cottage cheese laced fingers, feigning indifference while I use my legs to hold the other dog back from the gourmet meal she would prefer to her dry kibble.
It is wearying and rarely rewarded. Sometimes, it’s downright comical. Like when my daughter screeched, “Eww! Mom, Flower just vomited and now she’s eating it!” and all I could say was, “Well, make sure she eats all of it!”
I negotiate, cajole, bargain and pray. Bottom line: she is dying.
I think about people who tend aging parents or grandparents and I wonder if they go through much the same rituals. Frankly, I’m not sure I’d have that same infinite patience with another human being. Every day I send out a blessing for those who do.
I feel so defensive about my dog wasting away. I fear people will accuse me of starving her. If they only knew! I tell people she has cancer. I think she does have cancer. But really, does it matter? Why do we have to name it? Why is it so important that death fit into our framework of understanding?
It isn’t pretty, this slow death. When an animal stops cleaning itself, you suddenly become aware of just how important those habits were to your own sensibilities. Even the mildest pat can leave her looking mangy, her coat having lost its spring. It goes right along with the milky eyes and the funk of old dog.
She shrinks from being touched now. There was a time when all she craved was human contact, nudging and cuddling and melting into a nice petting with a heavy sigh of satisfaction. Now she cringes, like a beaten down mongrel as if her frail bones will shatter with even the lightest touch, or maybe she’s tired of having perpetual bed-head.
I fear that I am waiting too long. I saw a dog once that had clearly exceeded the “quality of life” yardstick, its grotesque shape covered in pendulous tumors that dragged on the ground with each labored step. As I gagged in disgust, I told myself: there’s your measure. And then my eyes met those of the woman at the other end of the leash. Hers were pleading, “Please don’t judge me!” I looked away shamefaced because I already had.
On the bad days, I call around to the local vets, trying desperately to find one that will perform at-home euthanasia. I haven’t found one anywhere in the area yet. She’s given me so much. Love. Loyalty. Lower blood pressure. A stainless steel vet table just feels like the ultimate betrayal.
Let me be able to give her comfort, familiar faces and a safe place to die peacefully. That is my wish for her – that she die in her own bed, in her sleep. But really what I mean is that she die in my sleep.
I have seen the final moments of loved ones, the innate will to live fiercely at odds with the pain of organs shutting down. I am certain this dying business is going to get uglier before it resembles anything like peace. Ultimately, I am a coward.
On the good days, I give her permission to go. “When you’re ready, sweet, you just go. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine!” I tell her, but I have thrown myself at her feet, body wracked with sobs. She looks at me, impassive, and I wonder, in those final moments, which of us will suffer more.
Flower shared her life with us from 8/24/1999-6/29/2010
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