One of the most difficult nights of my life occurred just about eight years ago. It was the night that Manny, The Best Dog Who Ever Lived, lost the use of his hind legs.
It hadn’t been a great several months. I’d been fired at the end of July, and my search for a new job was nearly over… and so was my marriage and my life in Cincinnati. I’d had a phone interview for a position in DC, the job I would ultimately take and begin the following month.
But none of that mattered that particular night. What mattered was that Manny–our purebred Brittany adopted from a shelter more than a decade earlier, who for months had been incontinent and losing his sight and motor skills but who still had the most mellow nature and the happiest smile any dog could ever ask for–couldn’t stand. Manny was the first dog we’d owned, and the first dog in my life I wasn’t scared to death of. His gentleness changed the way I dealt with animals and some people as well.
It all started when I heard Manny try to get up a couple times in the master bathroom (he liked to sleep on the cool tile), then collapse, breathing heavily and whimpering ever so slightly. I carried him downstairs and placed him on the ground. He collapsed again.
I carried him back inside and called my husband, who was working overnights. We agreed to wait until the morning when his shift was done and take Manny together to our vet, as we both suspected it was the end.
I joined Manny on the tile floor for the next six hours, neither of us sleeping much. I’d like to think it mattered to him that I was there. Our other two dogs, perhaps in tune with what was happening, stayed out of the room.
The vet gave my husband and me the answer we expected: There was no hope for much quality of life. He gave us a few minutes alone with Manny, then injected the drug to put him down, and left us alone with him.
I t’s not a time I’d spent much time thinking about, perhaps because it was so hard–so many things coming to a close in my life at once. Yet, last week, I dreamed about that night. It wasn’t painful; rather it was about being present to Manny by simply petting him and providing the comfort I could. It was about letting go. I woke up feeling calm and serene, rather than in tears and regret.
And it made me wonder about some of the other things in my life I find so hard to let go of–and how long it would take to feel calm and serene if I’d only find the strength, if not for myself then for the others involved, that I found for Manny.
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Your story reminds me of the day the dog-love-of-my-life, Fergus, dragged himself to the back door to meet me. Blood ran out of his nose and his eyes were glazed. I too knew the time had come and curled up around him on the floor of the vets as his heart stopped and mine shattered. For weeks the empty spaces he left behind screamed at me. Desperate steps led me to a shelter where I adopted a puggle that had been returned multiple times. She looked so sad, this was her last chance. I came within a breath of also giving up on her. Two years later she still has phobias, but we adore one another and continue to work on reforming behavior and leaving our abusive past behind us. There are lessons to be learned from four-footed friends. Lessons to enrich our lives.
Thanks, Sue, for sharing. Amen on the learning, and so glad you were able to welcome the puggle into your life!