Ave Abby

It’s an honor to hurt so much, feel so much, and to have loved that much.

BEFORE

Abby’s life with me spanned from 8 weeks to 16 years old. We shared almost 6000 days, 8 houses, 2 other pets, 8000 miles of a road trip, 25 states, and 6 boyfriends. We experienced endless bonding, and she is a part of every cell of my body.

Abby’s decline started with confusion. I found her standing in a corner, looking at a wall, “stuck.” I stomped the floor, whistled, and yelled (as she was deaf now), “Abby, over here.” After a few minutes, she turned around, hobbling on her skinny, arthritic legs, and looked at me in surprise. She trounced excitedly over to me as if I just arrived home. 

Then the separation anxiety set in. I spied on her with my pet camera when I left the house. She paced at the front door and whined- for the entire time I was gone, whether for 10 minutes or 6 hours. 

She was too unsteady to climb steps, so I bought a full-body harness to carry her up and down like a suitcase. Then she forgot to go outside to go to the bathroom. Diapers became imperative.

But my heart melted if she wagged her tail a little. Or if she looked up at me expectantly with those wide, searching brown eyes.

One day I came home from work and found her sprawled on the kitchen floor. Her legs were splayed out, with a front leg under the refrigerator. She must have laid there for hours. My Alexa was programmed to play relaxing music when a dog barked, and I saw in the app when that was triggered. The floor was wet from her panting and drooling. It took her until bedtime to walk upright again. But as always, she recuperated.

All this and she was still somewhat happy and mostly content when I was home. One afternoon, she shakily stood before me and heavily placed her head on my lap. I stretched out my legs to enclose her and she leaned onto them until she had transferred all her weight onto me. Her eyes found mine, and they asked me to please set her free. Abby knew I would read her mind and she closed her eyes with that knowledge.

On one of our walks, Abby and I found a sculpture by Dominico Mortellito in the Delaware Art Museum Sculpture Garden. The limestone is carved into a muscular figure with its arms crossed above its head, holding back ominous faces on its back. A child is standing in the shadow of this protective being. His upturned visage faces the sun, smiling cherubically, holding a dove. The name of this sculpture is “Protecting the Future.”

To me, this sculpture meant that it was brave to protect a loved one. It gave me peace where there was only pain. It allowed me to believe that I was doing the best for Abby when I felt like a murderess.

Euthanasia protects our pets from dementia that progresses to constant confusion, fear, and unsettledness. It saves them from the torture of paralysis on the floor, alone, and trapped because their legs have given out. It staves off extreme separation anxiety, wondering where you went, thinking you left permanently. By freeing her from this life, I was protecting her from the eminent evil of worsening dementia and debilitating old age. She already had a toe in that water, but I could prevent the splash.

Many social media groups that are focused on canine dementia and senior dog care face this question. WHEN IS IT TIME? I found those groups while searching for that answer. This post is for those of you struggling with the decision of when is the correct time to put your animal to sleep. It is for the future me, who forgets everything she’s learned this time, and the last time. Whenever you decide, it is the correct time. You are deciding out of love, so that decision can’t be wrong. Trust yourself that you see something subconsciously that you may not even be able to acknowledge consciously.

One night, in the depth of my sorrow, I examined all the times I have felt this overwhelming and debilitating grief. The first time was when my high school/college boyfriend got accepted to dental school in Pittsburgh 3 days before school started. I was headed to optometry school in Philadelphia and neither of us would have a car at school. After spending most days together for the previous 8 years, my world felt like it was being ripped apart. When I had to leave him on the night before he moved 300 miles away, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t calm myself and that stuck with me, creating a groove in my brain. Since then, extreme goodbyes spiral me into emotions that I struggle to soothe.

In my worst moment, I sat on my couch in a dark living room, ruminating on how terrible I was to do this to my beloved, helpless dog. I worked myself into a sobbing, shaking, gasping puddle. I would get myself together enough to breathe momentarily, and then the cycle would start again. I texted my sister, who is skilled at breaking rumination, “Will you please help me? Nothing I am doing to help myself is working and I am a mess.”

Erin jumped right to work.

She wrote,

“The first thing:

Don’t push the thought away.

Allow for it to be there.

Not all feelings are fact

and not all thoughts are true.

You can think and feel things for reasons

that may not align with your values.

Allow for the imperfection of being human.

Allow yourself the thought, ‘maybe I am doing it too soon’. 

But then you also must allow ‘maybe I’m doing it too late’. 

You don’t get to beat yourself up constantly.

You are trying your best.

If you worry that it isn’t severe enough suffering. 

Remember all the years you gave her no suffering at all.

You are distressed about ending Abby’s suffering too soon.

You would not be distressed if you were a terrible person.

Can you give yourself grace that there is no perfect time?

Maybe it’s the right time, but maybe not. 

Leave room for not being perfect. 

It is ok to make this decision even if Abby isn’t pooping in diapers,

even if she wasn’t getting stuck under appliances,

even if, even if, even if…

There isn’t a perfect time.

It’s going to be horrible no matter what.

And no matter when you decide to do it, 

it won’t change that.”

And that helped to break my cycle of despair. So much so that I made a file on my phone with her words.

To quote my favorite movie Love Actually, Emma Thompson says to Liam Neeson “It was always going to be a totally shit time.”

DURING

My mom offered to be there with me. My answer was no, for a few reasons. It was going to be a horrendous day and absolutely nothing would change that. There was no reason to also make my mom cry through a traumatic experience. I wanted to feel my feelings thoroughly, and I can’t be in my own head when I am worried about someone else’s wellbeing. I wanted to sob and snot and feel the emptiness fully and alone.

Abby’s passing was peaceful. She fell asleep in her favorite bed in her favorite spot on the back deck with Marty and me by her side. The Hospice Vet came to the house. Abby didn’t even hear her approach from behind to give her the initial shot of painkiller and sedative. For the first time in years, Abby’s entire body relaxed and sunk heavily into her bed. Abby always seemed uncomfortable, taut, made of sinew and glass, stiff, breakable. In her last moments, she was finally free. Abby‘s body welcomed the second shot that stopped her heart. The perfect blue sky welcomed her spirit into its embrace. 

What was left was the shell, a pile of bones and flesh and fur, a body that no longer held my Abby. The vet gave me the option to carry her out to the car. Because it was no longer my dog, I couldn’t do it. The vet scooped Abby up in a towel and carried her to the back hatch of her SUV, where there was a dog bed. The vet positioned Abby in a way that looked like she was napping. Death wouldn’t allow Abby’s head to stay tucked, and it kept flopping out of the bed. In life, that was how she slept, her body contained in the bed with her head on the floor. It gave me a sad little chuckle as I explained.

AFTER

I watched my other dog, Marty, grieve purely. He laid flat out on the couch, unmoving, for 1 week. Marty would walk with me but without zest. He ate, but perfunctorily. Once he started following me around the house again, I knew his grieving period was lifting. 

With my worry about Marty alleviated, my grief could start. My resolve that I was doing the right thing loosened. The words, convincing myself it was time, no longer repeated in my brain. That resolution wall that was present for weeks finally came down, and I just missed her. 

I stood at the top of my steps where I had carried her 10,000 times and cried. I pictured her little face looking up at me expectantly for a treat, a walk, a kiss, and cried. Seeing a new leaf on a plant given to me when she died made me cry. A kind neighbor who had taken a imprint of her foot brought me a framed memorial and I cried. When I was talking to myself and said “Abby girl” out loud and Marty looked for her, I cried. Writing this post I cried and cried.

But slowly, each day, I shed fewer tears. Until there was one day when I didn’t cry. And soon a week went by when I didn’t cry. I’m not quite at a month without tears.

Grief is just love with no place to go. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot. And while it seems like it never will, the sadness does improve with time.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. To quote Love Actually again, “Let’s do it. Let’s go get the shit kicked out of us by love.”