We put Nigel to sleep on Tuesday.
He had continued to refuse food for days. It was so unlike him. When he was healthy he at everything he could manage to, so it was especially hard to deal with. He had always been such a voracious little piggy.
We tried to get him to eat everything we could think of. Dog food, cat food, steak, chicken, dog ice cream, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, cheese soup, shredded cheese, whipped cream, yogurt, cereal, oatmeal…Anything we thought about eating ourselves we would put in front of him, only to be met with a sniff and a head turn.
The days went on, he got weaker. We bought puppy formula and syringe fed him, hoping that, if he got a little something in his stomach, maybe it would settle, maybe he would want to eat on his own. We also added an acid reducer hoping that would make his stomach feel better too. This brought back memories from when he was a puppy. His mom ran out of milk so my mom, his breeder, and I all would take turns bottle feeding him until he was old enough to eat on his own. It was like things came around full circle.
At first, it seemed to sort of work. He didn’t want to eat still but he seemed maybe a little perkier. Tuesday afternoon I was sitting on the floor, trying to convince him to come eat some of whatever I was offering him and he vomited it up puppy formula, water, bile, a few blades of grass. He vomited several more times. It smelled terrible, like it had just been sitting in his stomach rotting. I cleaned it up, and discovered another, dry pile. He hadn’t been keeping it down as well as we had hoped. That kind of did it for me. If he couldn’t digest anything, how was it fair to keep him alive?
That night, after my mom got home from work, she woke me up. She had been sitting with him, trying to get him to eat, asked me if we should try to syringe feed him some more. I told her about what happened during the day and she didn’t think it was fair to force more food on him either. He seemed weak, too skinny, dehydrated despite the fluids we had been giving him, breathing harder than normal. We talked and came to the conclusion that we should probably call the vet’s office the next morning and make an appointment to have him euthanized. Yes, maybe we could have tried to have him hospitalized again, maybe even put a feeding tube in, but to what end? He hated being hospitalized and his favorite thing in life was eating. I’ve had moments where I feel like maybe we didn’t do everything we could have, but I would rather do that than to have gone too far. We tried so hard to keep him happy and alive.
I slept fitfully that night, having nightmares about animals being euthanized, only to be woken up by the sound of my mom crying in the morning. She hadn’t made the call yet and was struggling with it. She thought it was cold where he was sleeping, so we covered him up with one of my fleece jackets and he looked cozy. We tried to offer him water, but he refused. She called, made the appointment for about an hour after she called, and we all started getting ready, and each taking a turn to sit with Nigel and talk to him, pet him.
When it was time to go, mom pulled the car out of the garage and I let Nigel roam in the yard. He seemed like he perked up a little bit, but he was so wobbly. He wagged his tail when he saw my mom and that made her question what we were doing. We got in the car and started to waffle. Maybe he didn’t feel as bad as we thought. My dad, for once, had a definite answer, saying that he was sure that it was time. Aaron followed suit, saying that when our friend Eric came over the other day, Nigel barely barked at him and didn’t even get up off his pillow, when, in the past, he would have barked savagely and for a very long time. They were right, but it’s so hard to be definite about a situation like this.
When we got to the clinic, we were lead to the euthanasia room so we wouldn’t have to be in the waiting room with anyone else. Nigel had never been in this room, so he didn’t associate it with exams, getting fluids or anything and he didn’t seem scared or anxious, just curious. My mom filled out paperwork and we waited for John to come in, talking to Nigel, petting him, making jokes, remembering silly Nigel antics, crying. Tina came in and gave us all hugs. It was so sweet of her, but it did set us all off crying again.
Eventually, John came in, talked to us briefly to assess the situation. I was so glad he’d be doing it. He’s my favorite of the doctors there and he has an amazing sense of compassion. He went to get the euthasol, came back with Michelle for restraint. We had them put a muzzle on him, as a just in case measure. He had gotten so used to them for when he got his fluids, so he really didn’t seem to mind it. Mom held him, I pet his back. It went smoothly. Nigel didn’t even seem to notice the needle go in. And then he was gone. We removed the muzzle, pet him, kissed him. John apologized, patted our arms. Aaron and mom later mentioned that they had noticed some voice breaks and sniffling from him. When I worked there, he would tear up at every euthanasia I assisted with. It’s one of the things I really admire about him. We talked for a little bit, told him how we think, in part, his decline was so rapid because Nesmith was no longer there. They really were like a weird, old, married couple. They loved to aggravate one another but I do think they liked each other too, most of the time. John got a kick out of that saying that he bet Nesmith was getting picked on by Nigel in the doggy afterlife right now. It was an oddly comforting thought.
He left us so we could say our final goodbyes. We all hugged and kissed him. It seems so odd kissing a dead dog, yet also so natural. We all kissed his nose and snout, since we never could when he was alive. He really didn’t like us to mess about with his face. I nibbled on his ears because he used to like to play a game where I’d nibble his ears and then he’d nibble mine. It was hard leaving him there, but we wrapped him up in the blankie on the exam table and made a pillow for him with the corner of it. It looked like he was peacefully resting. We’ll get his ashes back soon and, with them, a clay paw print.
I like to think of him smiling and wagging his tail.
Losing a pet is hard, heartbreaking. But losing two in less than two months is on a completely different level. Going through this with Nigel stirred up the recent memories of Nesmith’s death last month and I feel like I’m grieving for them both, not just Nigel. I feel like we did the right thing for both dogs, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I have that dull, heartbroken feeling where it seems like there’s a deep, dark pit of sorrow in the middle of my chest. I love my neurotic, little chihuahua babies.
Here they are together, no doubt irritating one another, but cozy
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