Rest in peace - dear sweet dog

My beloved dog is dying.   She is in acute kidney failure and this is likely her last day with us. She’s lying on her bed beside my own makeshift bed on the floor.  I have barely moved from here…afraid to be elsewhere in case she’s scared or in pain.

Please Jazzy – just die on your bed in front of the fire. I’ll sit here with you.

She has an IV so every time she shifts or tries to turn over, I have to make sure the tubing doesn’t pull or kink.  I have slept little the last two nights on the floor beside her… awakened every time she moved.

It happened so fast; within a couple of days she went from lurking in the kitchen for dropped scraps to unable to get up on her own. And to make things worse, this started to happen while I was away and  I spent all weekend just hoping that she would hang on until I got back.  She did and even lifted her head and half-wagged her tail when I arrived at the vet’s on my way in from airport.

I have been home for two days now and nothing has worked. It’s time. When she looks at me I don’t know whether she’s begging to die or feeling guilty because she knows she’ll be leaving me to guard the house all by myself.

All I can do is sit with her and tell her I love her. Jazzy, it’s OK to let go.  Please don’t fight it anymore - we’ll be fine old girl.  There’s a squirrel on the tree outside; I know how much you hate them.

I can’t bear to watch this anymore and I just made the excruciating call to the vet to ask him to put Jazzy down. I know it’s the right decision. The girls are home from school so that we can be with her when she goes.  I’m not torn over my decision to end her suffering, but I do hate the idea of her last minutes spent in a vet’s office.  So the least I can do for my loyal friend is to ask the vet to come here and let her die in front of the fire on her own bed.

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It’s over now and it was so peaceful – a perfectly peaceful death. I kept telling her that is was OK to let go…that I’ll miss her terribly but that I’ll be OK. I held her while she went and I felt her last breath. It was my job to hold and comfort her the entire time.  We took turns kissing her goodbye and after the vet left with her we just hugged and sobbed.

I’m not going to wash your bed just yet.  I need you to still be here.  And I know I’ll cry when I vacuum up the last of your hair. What do I with your leftover food? I will break down explaining to a stranger why I no longer need it. Who will sleep at my feet while I work? Who will clean up the crumbs from the kitchen floor? Who will remind me it’s time to walk to the school to pick up my daughter?

I am spent – tired and lost. But somewhere in the grief, there is relief that our stinky and deaf old dog isn’t hurting anymore. I don’t believe in God or in Heaven, but wherever she is I’m sure she’s chasing squirrels and eating steak.

Rest in peace, sweet old girl.

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