R.I.P. Sam: 1992-2007

I got through it. But it was a heart-wrenching experience.

There are many stages of dying along the way to the end of a very long life.

For Sam, the first stage was when he went deaf a few years ago. The deafness, I think, was a fundamental loss to him. And to me.

The next phase began in January 2006, when he abruptly began showing signs of dementia. His deterioration – both physically and mentally, but especially emotionally – was like a series of small deaths.

Last night felt like another phase of death, as Sam slept peacefully at our feet while my son and I grieved together. When he woke up, he struggled with heartbreaking difficulty to his feet. We felt so sorry for him, but it reinforced for both James and me that the decision was right: it was time to let him go. This morning, before leaving for that final walk to the vet’s, I gave Sam extra treats and I cut some of the long hair from his ears, some for me and some for James.

There have been many little deaths over the past few days as I’ve done things with Sam, knowing this would be the last time. The last time I would ever throw a ball for him. The last time I would ever clean his tumour. The last time we would wake up together. The last pill, the last cookie, the last piece of cheese, the last walk….

He loved that last walk to the Bayview Animal Hospital. And everybody there was genuinely kind to both of us. So kind, I cried. They gave him all the treats he wanted, and a bowl of water, and lots of strokes and gentle words.

The euthanasia process involves several steps. They give you some time alone together in a cozy room, then administer a sedative (to the dog, of course, but I could have used one too), and then they give you a few more minutes alone together while the sedative takes effect. Next, they insert an IV tube, inject a flush solution to clear the tube, and finally they inject the euthanasia solution through the tube.

For the first few minutes after they administered the sedative, Sam was alert, relaxed and very focused on me; the connection between us felt stronger than ever. He even licked my face, which I *never* let him do. Then, as the sedative began to take effect, he started looking stoned and he needed to lie down, and then he didn’t make eye contact anymore. I felt like he was already dying – he wasn’t himself anymore. The connection wasn’t the same, and I knew it would never be the same again. I knew he was, at some level, already gone. I felt my heart break as I realized this, because I hadn’t said my final goodbyes yet. I thought we still had some time.

I was taken to another room to drink water and weep while they inserted the IV in his foreleg in preparation for the administration of the euthanasia drug. Then they brought me back into the room to be with him for his final minutes. He was lying on a comfy brown blanket on the floor, and he gazed at me through stoned eyes. I was grateful for the eye contact: I felt connected to him again. I sat on the blanket with him and he laid his head in my hand and I stroked him and told him I loved him. The vet injected the euthanasia solution into the IV and he died within thirty seconds, very peacefully and gently, with his head nestled in my hand, while I tried to be brave and failed miserably.

Even as she was injecting the final solution, I was questioning my decision. Was I doing the wrong thing? Was I doing the right thing too soon? Couldn’t we squeeze in a few more months of life? I wanted to change my mind.

I knew the moment he lost consciousness. His neck loosened and his head, still resting comfortably in my hand, rolled back towards the floor. He was gone. He started getting cooler almost immediately. But he was still a little bit there; I knew he wasn’t all gone yet.

The vet – she was so gentle and thoughtful – told me I could stay with him as long as I wanted. She left me alone with him. I don’t know how long I stayed. I just sat there on the blanket with him, talking to him, stroking him, praising him, apologizing to him, thanking him, as I worked my way through a box of kleenex. His nose started twitching, long after he died. The vet – fortunately – had forewarned me about the twitching, otherwise I might have thought he’d miraculously come back to life.

As I sat there, I thought about how completely and how purely he had loved all his favourite activities and favourite people over the years. I thought about how adorable his ears were when they were wet…his silky ear hair would get all crinkly. I thought about what kind of place his doggie heaven would be, if there were such a place. It would be outdoors, with water and rocks and logs and fields and good people with cheese and friendly dogs to play with and hump. There would be no smoke detectors, vacuum cleaners, thunderstorms, fireworks or pain, no ravages of time.

I gently pulled out a few clumps of loose fur and put them in my pocket. And finally, when I was sure he was all gone, I kissed him goodbye and left him behind.

I’ve gotten used to losing my dog in increments over the past few years, but there was always something left. Now, there are just reminders of him everywhere. His dish. His collar. His duvet. His rawhide bone out in the back yard, a Christmas present from James. Clumps of fur. Muddy pawprints. Blood on the walls. Medicine. Memories.

My dog has finished dying now. He’s finally all gone, forever.

(But I sense his presence everywhere.)

I have an appointment to get Sam euthanized Thursday morning at 10:20. I made the appointment last week, and the last few days have been getting harder and harder. I’ll be fine one moment, and then suddenly I’ll start crying, sometimes even in public. I don’t know how I’m going to get through it.

Yesterday he was acting like such a puppy at the park…he found a tennis ball and asked me to throw it for him, so I threw it and he chased it and brought it back four times, all happy and excited, just like when he was young and healthy. It made me happy to see him feeling so good. But it also made me wonder if I’m jumping the gun, or cheating him out of the last little bit of all he’s got left.

My son’s coming over to say goodbye to him tonight. I don’t know how I’m going to get through that either.

I remember the day we met Sam at the Humane Society. That was back when all the animals were on public display in kennels, and you would wander among them and pick the one you wanted.

We were going up and down the aisles, looking at all the dogs, and suddenly James, who was only 10 at the time, said with absolute conviction “This is him! This is my dog!”

I suggested that we finish looking at ALL the dogs before making up our minds, but he was adamant that he didn’t need to look at any more dogs, THIS was his dog.

“Why?” I asked.

“Watch this,” he said. And then he turned to Sam.

“Sit, Sam,” he said quietly. Sam sat.

“Shake a paw Sam,” he said. Sam put his paw against James’ hand, through the kennel bars.

“See?” said James, “He already understands me. He’s my dog.”

He was a handsome young dog, much redder then than now, with intelligent brown eyes and a calm, relaxed demeanor which stood out in that chaotic environment among the scores of excited and emotional dogs all shrieking “Pick me! Pick me!”

I still thought we should finish looking at all the dogs before making the final decision, but James was convinced that Sam would get scooped up in a matter of seconds if we left his side, since he was clearly the Very Best Dog in the Whole Humane Society, as anybody could plainly see.

He was right. And tonight, all these years later, he’s coming over to say goodbye to the Very Best Dog.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.

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James arrived just as I was writing that. We got through it, but this is what the coffee table looked like by the time he left.

We’re both very sad.

Ah, the Nostalgia Show! I love it. Yesterday was the day and I got up early so I could be near the front of the line when the doors opened at 9:00.

Here are a few of my favourite things. (You probably already know this, but just in case you don’t, you can click on any of the photos to see a larger version.)

See that ugly smushy-nosed boy doll beside the bear? Don’t you think he’s got a certain irresistible charm? I bet you can’t guess where he lives now.

His name is Nigel and he lives at Chez Zoom (!) now, with what my sister describes as “Suzy’s creepy dolls.”

…and the world’s ugliest smushy-nosed bear.

This bear was among my grandfather’s effects when he died. When my mother and her partner were going through his stuff, they came across it.

“It’s too ugly to keep, and it would be kind of sad to throw it away,” they mused, “Let’s give it to Susan.”

I adore him. I adore Nigel too.

Speaking of grandparents, my grandmother died peacefully in her sleep yesterday. She was 94, and the last of my grandparents. I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed nice.This is the only picture I have of her: it was taken at my christening I think. Both my parents, three of my grandparents, two of my great-grandmothers, and my sister and I are in here. My grandmother who died yesterday is the pretty blonde woman, third from the left in the back row. (I’m the slack-jawed baby.)

I guess you can’t ask much more of life than ninety-four good years and a peaceful death. Rest in peace Grandma.

A plump vibrant snowwoman sprung to life last week, right beside my bus stop. (Does snowwoman have two w’s or one? It looks wrong both ways.)

I photographed her every day throughout her short life. This is Snowwoman on March 9th.

Here she is at 7:00 AM on March 13th, looking a little thin and bedraggled, poor thing. A little limp around the edges. A little desperate and haunted around the eyes.

This is Snowwoman at 5:15 PM that same day: dead, at the tender age of 4.5 days, cut down in the prime of her life by Mock Spring.

Despite witnessing the indignities suffered by poor sweet Snowwoman, I enjoyed Mock Spring. We basked in thirteen delicious degrees yesterday. I took my hat and mittens off, but I wasn’t gullible enough to put my boots in the basement just yet, or go out motorcycle-shopping. I’ve been through enough seasons in my life to know winter isn’t going to surrender in the first round. And see? The mercury’s dipping down to minus 13 tonight and minus 17 on Monday.

If only Snowwoman could have hung on through Mock Spring, she’d have had a new lease on life. I tried to tell her that on the morning of the day she died, but she couldn’t hear me: her ears were lying in a puddle at her feet.