At 5:30 p.m., Tyra looked at me, and I knew.
My 12-year-old beagle-mix dog was dying slowly from end-stage kidney failure. It was time to let her go.
All day I had been vacillating over whether I was doing the right thing. “She’s wagging her tail at me. That’s a good sign,” I’d tell myself, or “She ate two treats, maybe she’s improving.” That was the owner in me speaking, the ever-hopeful doggie dad, an angel on one shoulder helping me cling to any sign her treatments were working. On the other shoulder was the veterinarian, with his pitchfork of science and his spiked tail of medical knowledge. He knew better. I was saying things to myself that I advise other owners to avoid in making the decision.
She had stopped eating from her bowl days earlier and had lost 9 pounds in six weeks. Two ultrasounds showed her kidneys in their shrinking, mineralized state; her blood pressure was catastrophic; fluid therapy hadn’t changed her rising kidney enzymes; and walking outside to pee was such a chore she often collapsed in the process. Tyra’s eyes were almost always half closed, as if she were fighting a constant migraine or feeling the effects of a really bad hangover.
And yet, all day long, I wavered between letting her go and giving it “a few more days.” Part of the difficulty was my sense of guilt. Had I failed her as an owner and as a veterinarian? Was there something I could have done, something I could have anticipated or caught sooner?
I knew the answer was no. I treat my dogs with the same diligence as any of my clients. Still, it didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.
And then there was the pain and heartache of losing a loved one. Tyra was an amazing dog, with a headstrong, dominant personality and a protective bark, an escape artist who would have made Harry Houdini proud. Answer the front door without checking her whereabouts or forget to latch the backyard gate, and she was gone, off wandering the neighborhood as if she owned it. I lost count of how many times I got phone calls that started, “Um, I think I found your dog on [insert the name of any busy side street within a quarter mile of the house].”
She ruled the house with a puffed-up chest and an air of empowerment, yet she craved affection, and would climb into my lap with her head in my face, nuzzling as close as possible. The thought of losing her was devastating.
By now, everyone had left the office but me, my wife, Jodi, and Tyra, and I knew it was time. Her eyes showed exhaustion, discomfort and sadness. It looked as though she was pleading with me to end her pain. Her chest didn’t puff, her tail wouldn’t wag, her bark was gone. The doors to the office were open, but she had neither the strength nor the inclination to escape.
So here we were, my wife and I, holding our “daughter,” preparing to say goodbye.
Why do we put ourselves through the gut-wrenching pain of losing a pet, I wondered. Yet I knew the answer: As much as it hurt, I wouldn’t trade the happiness and the unconditional love that come with having a dog.
Tyra had brought us so much joy in the 12 years since we’d rescued her on a beautiful winter day in Blacksburg, Va. At the time, I was a first-year veterinary student, and we were looking for a companion for Molson, our rambunctious, year-old golden retriever. We’d talked over brunch about what we wanted: a dog about Molson’s age in order to bypass the whole housebreaking, chewing phase of a puppy.
The plan formulated and everything decided, we figured we would start looking soon. But as we walked back to the car we saw a local rescue group had set up an array of cages on the sidewalk with dogs, puppies and cats up for adoption. And there she was: a 1-pound fluff ball, not much bigger than my hand. Jodi went to the cage and picked her up in her arms. She turned to me and said, “I want her.”
I asked her about the plan. She looked at me again and said, “I want her.” I knew that voice and that look; there was no arguing. Resigned to my fate, I asked what we needed to do to take her home. I was told that normally they would ask for a $20 donation and I’d have some paperwork to fill out. But she was a survivor of parvo, a potentially lethal virus that requires lots of supportive care and has a high mortality rate. Most of her litter mates had died, but she’d survived, tough little fur ball that she was. Because of that, they were asking for $120 to reimburse them for her expenses. I looked in my wallet, I looked at Jodi, I assessed the situation and I ran to the ATM. And just like that she was ours.
Now, here we were 12 years later, with Tyra again in Jodi’s arms. We were married, with three beautiful boys, and a third dog, as well. I was no longer a student, but a veterinarian, Tyra’s dad and doctor. We had come 360 degrees, the circle of life in all of its glory.
I debated letting someone else put Tyra down, but I’d rescued her, I’d nurtured her, I’d loved her and I couldn’t let her go at anyone else’s hands. Tears flowed from both me and my wife. We hugged her, repeating how much we loved her as if it were a mantra. My hands were shaking as I sobbed, my eyes clouded by tears. It took every ounce of effort to put the needle in the catheter to end her life, to end her suffering. It was the hardest thing I ever did in my life.
When it was over, we held her, caressed her soft coat, kissed her still warm face. We said our goodbyes, and then we drove silently home.
Dr. Adam Jaffe lives in Olney. He owns Montgomery Animal Hospital in Rockville and says he will always have dogs.
