We
had to put Albert down on Sunday. We don’t know exactly how old he
was, but probably somewhere around 14-15, which is a good, long life for
a dog. We adopted him when he was around 10-11 and took care of him
for almost exactly four years, which seems tragically too short. If
he’d found his way to us earlier, maybe his death would have felt better
(but probably not). I rest easy knowing that he had a really good summer in the woods of Port
Townsend this year, which we think was the highlight of his time with
us. It gives us great comfort to know that he was happy and enjoying
his life until about a month ago. His decline and death have taught me a
lot about my own feelings on the subject. When
we returned home from our summer away, he started having problems
walking, which was eventually diagnosed as a slipped disc. There are
many medications a dog can take to reduce pain and swelling, and Albert
was on all of them. This, as it often does, led to new, different
problems, most notably hardship for his liver and a refusal to eat.
Once he stopped eating, he was given new medicine to jump start his
appetite. In the end, nothing worked to stop/fix the health spiral and
he was having trouble with basic skills, like lifting his head. End-of-life
care is miserable for a family pet (and I can only imagine even worse
for family people). It’s a weird in-between space where you have to
simultaneously remain hopeful but develop an emotional barrier in order
to not be destroyed by the worst. Your future either involves life or
death and deciding which one to visualize can change in a split second--it's really maddening. The biggest challenge I faced was being
emotionally present and sensitive to Albert during the times that I
wanted to distance myself from him--when he was still alive, but I was
already trying to live without him. When Pumpkin died, the decision was
very sudden and came after a hopeless diagnosis. There was no trying
to get her back, there was only one option for her immediate future.
That way of death is WAY preferable to the other. When
we were deciding what kind of cremation package we wanted, I became
adamant that we get one that came with a ceramic paw print. We
unexpectedly got one when Pumpkin died and it gave me a huge sense of
relief. It’s sort of primal--the need to have ceramic babyprints or paw
prints. The only record we have of past life is recorded in rock. By
doing it for the ones we love, it’s like that moment within our lifetime
is preserved in the same way that it is for our evolutionary ancestors.
Albert
was a great dog. He was strange looking, half blind and partially
deaf, but we loved him with the entirety of our beings. He was a
fundamental part of our family and brought out the best in us. We
treated him with kindness and compassion and, at Natan’s insistence, we
never left him out of our excursions. This past month, Natan was his
biggest advocate, cheerleader and care taker. He carried him up and
down the stairs so that he could have the dignity of using the bathroom
outside, in the fresh air and nature that he loved. He soaked him in
water so that he could better remove the poop that was caked onto his
butt fur. He bought him meats, fish and fancy food to try to coax him
into eating, and he sat with him at the beach so that he could
experience the ocean one last time.
He was a simple dog and is already deeply missed.
(I also wrote a memorial letter to the humane society where we found him. It's
here.)
