At the End

End of life issues are something all pet owners have to face at some point.  Let’s face it, most pets have shorter lifespans than their owners.  I think there are some parrots and some turtles that live around 100 years, but if you’re talking about common pets like dogs and cats, they are going to leave us some day.  Depending on the breed, a dog might live 12 to 14 years.  A cat might live a few years longer than that.

It seems strange to me that we live in a society in which animals are usually not treated with much compassion, or at least, the law does not require them to be treated with compassion.  However, it is legal to euthanize an animal.  If a pet is suffering, if a pet has no hope of a meaningful recovery, we can choose to end things.  We do not afford human beings the same compassion in this country.  The law says we should let them suffer.  But that’s another issue, perhaps for another time.

Something I’ve learned, though, is that even though it’s legal to euthanize pets and even though most people consider it an act of compassion, it’s hard to know when it’s the right time to do it.  Owners are afraid of doing it too soon and they are afraid of waiting too long.  Do it too soon and they deprive their beloved pets of a few more days of life and love, and also deprive themselves of a few more days of their pets’ love and companionship.  Wait too long and their pets suffer, and they hold themselves to blame.  I have heard many people express concern that they did it too soon or that they waited too long, but I have seldom heard anyone say they thought they picked just the right time.

I’ve only had to make the decision to euthanize a pet once so far.  Patchouli was a stray kitten I got when she was very tiny.  I learned that she had feline leukemia, which is sort of like AIDS for cats.  She was not expected to live more than a year or so.  But she lived to be about five.  Except for one kidney infection, she was healthy until the end.  At the end, of course, she got very ill.

I knew she was dying.  She stopped eating, stopped doing anything.  But she didn’t appear to be in any pain.  She was sleeping all the time and seemed peaceful.  My partner (not Mike, a former partner) and I sat beside her on the bed, talked to her, told her stories, sang to her.  I don’t know if she even knew we were there, but it was peaceful.  I worked for a hospice at the time and I had attended many peaceful deaths at home.  That’s what I wanted for my Patchouli.

Instead, about midnight one night, she began having seizures.  She fell off the bed, seizing.  She lost control of her bladder.  She howled, the most horrific sound I’ve ever heard in all my life, a sound of immeasurable pain.  Maybe she wasn’t really in pain, maybe the howling was just part of the seizure activity, I don’t know.  But it sounded like a creature in immense, unending pain.  All night long, she seized and howled, and my partner and I cried, not because we were losing her but because we were helpless to stop her suffering.

We were waiting in the parking lot when the vet arrived at his office the next morning.  She lay in my arms while the vet inserted a catheter into her vein, asked if we were ready, and then injected the medication.  Instantly, she was gone. 

My first emotion?  Relief.  Relief that it was over, that she wasn’t suffering anymore.  I was sad that she was gone and I was sorry I hadn’t made the decision to euthanize her a day or two earlier, in order to spare her that last horrible night.

I’m wondering when the time will come to make this decision about my kitty Cayenne.  And I know it will come.  And the time will come to make this decision about my service dog.  The time will always come.

Sorrow is constant and the joys are brief.
Seasons come, bring no sweet relief.
Time is a brutal but a careless thief
That takes our lot and leaves behind the grief.

~ Emmylou Harris, “The Pearl”