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Illustration by Rania Abdallah
For two years, my 14-year-old dog Lucy has been dying. At least that’s what the vet said. But Lucy – bless her sweet, ridiculous, energetic, barking, farting soul – did not agree. This past year I considered changing her name to Phoenix because I’d be certain she was finished then she’d rise again.
She injured her back leg. And recovered. She got some yucky bacterial infection. And recovered. She got a UTI. And recovered. She reinjured her leg. And recovered. This cycle repeated itself so often I began to wonder if she was doing it for attention. Or sport.
A cross between a Catahoula Leopard Dog and a black Labrador, Lucy was well into her 90s in dog years, outliving the high-end expectation for both breeds. She gave up barking at the letter carrier and jumping up on my bed. Still, she limped into the kitchen every time cheese appeared or the rice cooker clicked – cheese and rice being her favourite foods.
The way she kept rallying I began to wonder if she’d become possessed by the spirit of the Rolling Stones or Betty White.
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Every day my heart skipped a beat when she dropped to her dog bed with a groan. One evening months ago I knelt beside her and whispered it was okay to go chase squirrels in the sky. She obviously wasn’t interested in that option because she walked to her bowl, banged it with her paw to remind me I was late serving her meal, then inhaled her food like she was in a competitive-eating contest.
I became trapped in emotional purgatory. Each morning, I woke up wondering: is today the day? And each evening I prayed she would drift off peacefully and not wake up. Then, sure enough, morning would come and she’d rise from her bed – wobbly, unpredictable and still alive.
People kept telling me, “You’ll know when it’s time.” Yes, I might, but apparently Lucy either had no idea or was choosing to ignore it.
Last summer, I was convinced the end had come. She wasn’t eating. She was lethargic. She struggled to stand. I called the vet and inquired about end-of-life care.
“Let’s give her two days,” my husband suggested. Apparently, Lucy heard him because 48 hours later she was gobbling down her meals and begging to go for walks despite ever-weakening back legs and hazard warning-worthy flatulence.
So I made the embarrassing phone call. “Hi, yes, I’d like to uneuthanize my dog, please.”
“She’ll tell you when she’s ready,” the receptionist empathized.
Really? Because so far the only thing Lucy has communicated is she wants more rice and cheese.
I’m taking coping cues from the good humour of my blind dog
If she could talk I’m sure she’d say, “Chill out. I’m fine! I’m just a bit of a drama queen. And I like all the extra treats and attention.”
Some days I was convinced she was hanging on purely out of spite. Or maybe grit. I also suspect she was refusing to die simply because everyone expected her to. Honestly, I don’t know whether to be annoyed or broken-hearted. I so admire her stubbornness, her refusal to follow any pattern or agenda. She’s a walking protest to having a decision about her mortality made for her.
Every morning, I checked her breathing. Every night, I wondered if she’d be alive in the morning, but my museum exhibit entitled Ancient Creature would snore loudly, dreaming of something joyful like chasing racoons, then, as the sun rose, so did she. Each day. Every day. Delaying the inevitable.
The real emotional rollercoaster came from hope. And dread. I’d start believing she’s got another summer in her, maybe another birthday. Then she’d have a spell of wheezing and incontinence, and my heart would fracture all over again.
Missing our beloved family dog, who was grumpy to the very end
Then there’s the guilt. How do you weigh love against suffering when the subject in question is leaning into your leg looking for affection? I tried applying logic, but love is no more logical than Lucy’s determination to rally for treats. I tried telling myself I was keeping her alive for her sake – but knew it was really for mine. She’s been with me through my children leaving home, a move to another city and a myriad of changes. The house felt more alive because she was in it.
For months she became Schrödinger’s dog – simultaneously alive and not-alive until observed – Lucy letting me know what she needed, me pretending I’m prepared for that final moment when I’m definitely not. Whenever someone asked how she’s doing I didn’t have an answer.
Then all too quickly our long goodbye became a reality. Her brittle bones simply couldn’t carry her any longer. On that day she wolfed down one final piece of cheese, having no idea it would be her last.
Suddenly the familiar sounds were missing: the click of her toenails on the floor, her bark when I arrived home, her breathing as she slept at my feet. I think she taught me there’s no perfect moment to say goodbye – only a collection of imperfect moments we muddle our way through, right to that final breath.
Sylvia Davies lives in Ottawa.