Last year when my old lab Zane’s legs failed at age 12, it was clear that it was the time to decide if his quality of life was ok. It clearly was not, and it was the time to ease his suffering. Zane started life in Texas with four legs. Sometime around three months or so he was struck by a car and had his leg broken. Apparently, his owner was either not around or did not want or could not afford the expense of veterinary bills. He was rescued and a wonderful organization called Labs4Rescue decided to help him by getting him the medical care he needed. His story was told on Houston Humane Society show on the Animal Planet. His leg was broken and twisted backwards. The doctors tried to reset it, but apparently there was either nerve damage or perhaps an infection occurred which resulted in the amputation of his rear leg at the hip. By the time he came to live with us, he had been rehabilitated and was a healthy and affectionate one year old Lab. He was “my best boy” something I have whispered in the ear of all my male dogs, of course the females were my “best girls”. It was a regular routine nearly every night, I would take fifteen minutes to pat, scratch and gaze into their eyes and tell them they were THE BEST. He was my sidekick on many a ride- although he was not big on rides, he was big on going to a drive-up window which meant he would get a treat. He would hang his big head out the window with his tongue hanging out and none of the bank tellers or Dunkin Donut clerks could resist his handsome face. Zane’s remaining three legs eventually failed long before he lost his zest for living, and it was so hard to make the call to the vet’s office, even though I knew it was what a loving owner would do. On our last day together, we hit every bank drive-up where I had an account and every Dunkin Donut (if you live in New England, you know how many there are!) and Zane collected a bunch of bones and little donuts.
After Zane’s death I decided maybe I was done with having a dog in the house. My mobility has suffered in the last few years and keeping up with a young or middle-aged dog would be difficult, especially since all chores related to dogs are in my wheelhouse. I lasted about 6 months and then started looking for an old dog who needed a home. When I was an active pastor, I was aware of many of my elderly parishioners, who needed to go into an assisted living or nursing home, but their dogs were not included in the move. So, I wondered if I could offer a home for an elderly dog whose owner could not take him or her with them. I stumbled upon the non-profit Old Dogs New Digs. On their website was a boxer/terrier mix who had experience a difficult time in the shelter. Apparently, he was either not picked or returned to the shelter as he had severe allergies and frankly, he smelled: his name was Chevy.
Chevy would not win any beauty contests. It was clear he was a man’s dog as his little stub tail would wag ferociously every time a man drove into our yard or walked into our house. He also had a great love affair with white vehicles. I can only assume his first beloved owner, (a guy) drove a white car or truck because Chevy wanted to get in any vehicle that fit the description. It broke my heart to see how he would run to every white car looking for someone and howl as they pulled away. I was in charge of Chevy’s extended pill regimen. This did not endear me to him, and I feared he and I would never bond. I discovered that hand feeding a dog helps create and cement the bond. The way to this guy’s heart was through his stomach, although he loved me, he made it clear he was looking still for the man who drove the white car. We got Chevy just before Christmas- he had little hair and terrible skin, and he itched and itched, and he smelled of a yeast infection. Our vet set forth a plan of shots and pills and special medications for his ears and skin when they would get yeasty. We became frequent visitors to the vet’s office, and as long as no one touched his feet he would be pretty compliant. If the vet tried to trim his long nails he would literally scream as only a boxer can. The vet techs would calm the next patients in the waiting, that no one was killing him he just did not like his toes touched.
Chevy showed slow and steady improvement and even grew back some of his tawny missing hair. His chest and neck suffered the worst of his allergies, and it was June before we saw the beginning tiny white hairs across his chest. We discovered he needed to be covered up with a sheet or a blanket in order to sleep soundly. He did not bark but was a great whiner- a boxer trait so I am told. He still got yeast infections and required timely shots to calm is overactive allergy response. If you have ever known a person with a severe case of psoriasis or eczema – Chev would be a kindred soul. He was also either a little deaf or stubborn or both so we had to guard against him running off when my back was turned. As the months passed, we celebrated every little gain for him, be it social or physical. Then, in July his immune system began its failure. The dreaded smell of a yeast infection returned with a vengeance, and his continued licking of his feet and any part of his body he could reach began the downward descent to being hairless again, with his skin covered with crusty lesions. He was a champion sleeper, all that itching and licking wore him out. One night he began to whine in his sleep at the foot of my bed. I thought “oh, no. I wanted him to stay with us longer.” He was due for shots and while it was a vet tech visit, the vet stopped in and told me he did not know what to do for him next. It was clear he was losing the battle with his immune system- he was on the maximum dosage for his weight. Then we talked about Chevy’s quality of life, and I told him about the soft whining in the dark. He hesitated to give me vaccinations because of his situation. Of course, I knew that the vet could not tell me to euthanize him, but he was telling that without really saying the words. We did vaccinate him and he went home with me. A few days later he stopped eating. I made the decision to call the vet first thing on Monday, and then tempted him with all the food he could not eat. He chowed down and looked at me as if to say, “where have you been hiding this stuff all this time!”
I called the vet and the next morning brought Chev to be put down. The vet tried to comfort me by telling me I gave him unconditional love for the last part of his life and that my decision to euthanize him was, he believed the right one in the face of Chev’s physical condition the severity of his discomfort would only get worse. As always it broke my heart to hold him, calm him if I could, and say goodbye. I am not very good at goodbyes.
I have had one dog or another (sometimes two or three) most of my life. It is time for me to become the crazy cat lady.
weftalone 