On Saturday, we had Nesmith euthanized. It was most definitely Time.
I can’t remember what I last wrote, but the oxygen we rented worked so well for him and is something I would recommend to any neurotic pet owner whose pet needed it but would be extremely anxious in an ICU setting. Aaron called Dr. Mary about it, and even though she had never had a client do in-home oxygen therapy for a pet, she wrote a prescription for it. The place we rented from wasn’t flummoxed at all by our request and even had an package for pet rental use, so at least they’d see it before. Aaron set it up at home and we tested it on Nesmith. He wasn’t thrilled about it at first, but not freaked out, but once he got more settled, it helped him sleep and rest so much better. It was such a relief to see him visibly more comfortable, even though we knew it was a temporary fix.
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday I brought him outside and he had little Nemma adventures. He was very interested in sniffing things, trying to eat bunny poop (we’ve got quite a few living in our yard, under my playhouse and in all the wildflowers and other weeds we’ve let grow. They love it and we love to watch them.), finding something stinky to roll in, sneaking past me to explore areas of our yard that are soft of off limits. He was having a great time and didn’t seem terribly winded.
We also got a little creative in what types of food we offered him. He was a picky little eater, weird for a dog, but part of his charm, so we had to keep switching it up. Fillet mignon was often a yes, as was the pork tenderloin we had one night for dinner. He, surprisingly, wasn’t very interested in chicken livers, which I thought he would be because yuck. Sometimes, he’d eat little nibbles of his kibble, a couple nibbles of chicken, a few licks of sunny side up egg yolk, even some liverwurst (again, ewwww). Never as much as we’d like, but he was eating, sometimes.
Friday night was when I was starting to feel like things were just…not right. I was trying to get him to eat some fillet mignon. He hadn’t really eaten much that day, just a bit of egg yolk, maybe a bit of pork tenderloin, and he was refusing the steak. I was sad, tired, frustrated. Every morsel I offered him, he turned his nose up at. I just wanted him to eat a little bit. I begged him “Please, Nemma, just one piece. That’s all. If you don’t want any more, that’s fine, but eat just this one piece for me.” And, without hesitation, he did.
I don’t know how much animals understand of what we say. I don’t think he understood what I said, but maybe I somehow got the desperation of my request across to him, or he was having a particularly intuitive moment. Or it was completely coincidental. But after eating that one, tiny morsel, he returned back to refusing all others. It just sort of felt like he was telling me he was almost done, that he didn’t really want to eat, but that he did eat that one little bit because it wasn’t so awful, I’d asked him so nicely, and I seemed so sad.
After that, I had a little heart-to-heart with him, the type you can only have with a pet, full of complete honesty and absolutely no bullshit or pretense. I told him I loved him. That if he wanted to go, it was OK, that it was OK to die. That I would help him, that tomorrow seemed like it might be the day. That it would make me and everyone else sad, but it was most important to do what was best for him. That I wished we could have more time together, that I could do something ridiculous like get him a heart transplant or cryogenically freeze him until it was the Future and those people had figured out how to fix him. And I apologized if I wasn’t strong enough for him, if I ended up waiting too long to do the right thing for selfish reasons.
I slept in mom’s bed with him until she got home from work. I’d been going back to my own bed after she would get home from work because it gave him the space to stretch out. It’s amazing how much space a 7 pound dog can take up. But that night, I felt like I needed to stay, like he wanted me to stay, the way he was looking at me. I slept maybe an hour and then was wide awake. Nothing was really going on, just couldn’t sleep. Ended up watching The Nanny all night, adjusting Nemma’s oxygen tubing if he moved, petting him, watching him. Eventually fell asleep again, maybe for another hour.
In the morning, Aaron left to help our friend Amber move. Mom and I tried to get Nesmith to eat. He actually nibbled on a little chicken, a little steak, a little liverwurst, though not much. We’d be out in the kitchen, and he’d want to hang out with us. I’d sit on the floor, and he’d crawl into my lap. Eventually, he’d creep back towards the bedroom, staring at us, as if to say “Come on, ladies, it’s nap time.” I got him settled in bed with mom, and then headed to my own bed, exhausted from less than 13 hours of sleep over the past 3 days in addition to all the emotional turmoil. Slept hard. A couple hours later, mom work me up, saying things weren’t looking good. Nemma had been having a good nap, but when he woke up, he was breathing harder and seemed weaker and less coordinated, like he could barely stand on his own.
Aaron got home, I had texted him that we were thinking it was time to call someone in to perform euthanasia. Mom called the first place, got an answering machine. Shit. Called the 2nd place I had in mind, like seemed to be disconnected. Shit. What if there was nothing available for an in-home euthanasia, on a Saturday in the late afternoon/early evening? Frantic google searching lead me to an organization called Pet Loss at Home. Hours of 8am to 8pm, 7 days a week. Mom called, started giving information, lost it on the phone, and handed the phone to Aaron, who finished giving information (I’m useless on the phone, in the best of times). As soon as he hung up, he started sobbing. We had a 6pm appointment.
We tried to keep Nemma as comfortable as possible, but he was just not doing well and having a hard time breathing. He just wanted us to hold him, even though it didn’t help the breathing situation. I took him outside, one last time, and what a difference less than 24 hours made. He just stood, where I set him, barely sniffing the air. I knew it was time, but that made it even more definite. I picked him up and brought him back inside, so he wouldn’t get cold, so we could gently cuddle him, try to comfort him, give him more oxygen, until the doctor come.
The doctor was prompt, quiet, unassuming, immediately kind. She was efficient, yet not rushed, and had one of the most perfect bedside manners I’ve encountered. We got settled on the floor, Nemma in my lap. He didn’t seem terribly stressed by a new person, but he’s always been more of a people dog than the others. She gave him a sedative, a subcutaneous injection. He hadn’t been maintaining his temperature very well in the past day (he seemed to find the heating pad we gave him comfortable), so, I guess, as a result, wasn’t perfusing very well, which, in turn, slowed the action of the sedative. If I had been more in my right mind, I would have mentioned it to her. I watched him breathe, and his tongue was starting to turn purple, because he just couldn’t take in enough oxygen. She decided to give him a little more sedative, in case he was experiencing more distress, and this time, injected it in one of his muscles. It worked so fast, he had lost so much muscle mass in the last week or so. He was just out, pretty much unconscious, which was wonderful. Then she was getting the IV catheter ready. I was afraid she would have a hard time finding a vein, because he had gotten dehydrated over the course of the day, and his veins were small to begin with. She used the smallest butterfly catheter I have ever seen and got it in almost immediately, with no reaction from Nesmith because of the sedative.
And then she injected the euthanasia solution. It was over so fast. I had my hand on his chest, to steady him and hold him for my own comfort, and his heart was so enlarged and pumping so hard that you feel it beating nearly anywhere you touched him. It took me a moment to realize it had stopped. The tears poured out, as she listened to make sure he was gone. He was. Mom, Aaron and I (dad was at work) took turns holding him, stroking his fur, kissing his nose. When I handed him to Aaron, Aaron wept like I’ve never seen or heard, hugging Nemma’s little body to his chest, keening.
When we were ready, the doctor made a clay pawprint, and it was time for her to take Nemma away. Aaron carried him down the stairs, mom and I followed, and before he laid him in the back of her car, we gave him on last pet, one last nose kiss, one last ear stroke. Aaron set him down and the doctor wrapped him up in a cozy blanket, like he was sleeping. It was oddly comforting, though very final.
We’re all doing OK. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried about anything so much in my life, since last Monday when we were at the point of being sure that there wasn’t much else left to do for little Nemma. But in the past few days, I’ve been better and felt an odd sense of relief. I would rather have my little dog alive and with me, but I’m relieved and happy that he isn’t suffering. I think we all did a really good job with this situation and, while we did a few atypical things, I don’t feel that we kept him alive too long. The only time when I was really uncomfortable with him being alive was when we were waiting for the doctor, and it was out of our hands at that point. And the doctor. She was perfect. This was about the smoothest euthanasias you could hope for and her attitude, compassion, and bedside manner were perfect for us.
It’s all very sad and heartbreaking, but things feel right, if that makes sense. I’m just working on thinking of happy, silly Nemma memories and remembering what a quirky, wonderful, little dog he was.
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