Letting go

Yesterday I had the most unpleasant task for a pet owner, that being making the decision to put down a suffering animal. My dog Zachary had been in my family since December of 1992, an addition to the household after losing two dogs the year prior. A few minutes before midnight on New Years Eve 1991, the dog I had had for almost 16 years died. I gave myself a few months to get over that loss before getting another dog. That dog died at the beginning of December 1992 when he went for a neutering procedure. An allergic reaction, according to the vet, though I still suspect that they gave him the wrong dosage of Pentathol. The next night I brought Zachary home.

I could describe Zachary in one word: spoiled. But he was also loved. For fifteen years he was around during a multitude of landmarks in my life, and he often shared in those events. He quickly warmed up to my infant daughter at their first meeting. Zachary had spent much of the past ten years with my mom, my wife having a bunch of cats when we moved in together. Zach and cats were an ill-advised combination. Even as the years passed, he behaved like he was a puppy. That is until recently.

The last time I saw him a couple of weeks ago he was not his usual, vibrant self. He was very low key, very subdued. I didn't think much of it at the time. This past Saturday morning he crashed, not being able to walk or even stand. My mom took him to the vet where the initial tests showed is liver enzymes were really elevated, into the range that's considered irreversible. The vet suggested a weekend of fluids and medication and see how he was feeling come Monday. Yesterday morning came and his condition had worsened.

I got a phone call from my sister about 9:30 yesterday morning apprising me of the situation. It wasn't a hard decision to make from a practical perspective; the odds of him making a recovery were very remote, and he was clearly suffering. Making the decision to let him go was hard, but I loved him enough to make that decision and put an end to his misery.

Initially I had decided to let the vets office handle his remains, but I reconsidered. As his owner, his playmate, his chew toy, and purveyor of belly rubs, I owed it to him to bring him home. And that I did. He now rests in the shade of a dogwood tree in my backyard. He's home now, right where he needs to be, my reward to him for 15 years of loyalty and friendship.