Dogs lives are short, too short,
but you know that going in.
You know the pain is coming,
you're going to lose a dog,
and there's going to be great anguish,
so you live fully in the moment with her,
never fail to share her joy
or delight in her innocence,
because you can't support the illusion
that a dog can be your lifelong companion.
There's such beauty
in the hard honesty of that,
in accepting and giving love
while always aware that it comes
with an unbearable price.
~ Dean Koontz ~
On Monday morning, I got a call from the internal medicine vet at 10:30 and as she filled me in on everything going on with Ginny, a sense of dread came over me because it was one thing after another that Ginny was dealing with. Anemia, blood pressure, glucose, pancreatitis, liver values, internal bleeding, disinterest in food, and a very troubling issue with being able to treat her intravenously, because not only had the catheter in her jugular failed, but a second catheter in her hind leg had failed as well. The list went on and on. The vet spoke about next steps and what we could try and how they'd monitor Ginny to see how she responded.
And as I listened, I thought about a conversation C and I had had the day before. How much more were we going to put her through? How many more treatments and tests and procedures would we ask of our little gal? At what point would enough be enough? At what point would we decide that our love for her and our solemn promise to provide the best possible life for her would supersede our selfish desire to keep her with us? We both knew that sooner or later, we might have to make a very tough decision.
I told the vet that I needed her to be straight with me. That I didn't want her to sugarcoat things. That my only concern what Ginny's wellbeing and that my greatest fear was that she would suffer. I could not fathom her having a crisis and dying there, alone and afraid.
The vet's entire tone changed and we talked about Ginny's prognosis at length. She told me that when we'd spoken on Friday afternoon, she thought there was a "fair to good" chance of Ginny pulling through, but that after examining Ginny Monday morning and learning all that had transpired over the weekend under the watch of the critical care team, she now felt that Ginny's prognosis was "guarded to poor."
I asked her if it was time for us to set Ginny free and while she said she could never tell a pet parent what to do, she reiterated how tenuous of a situation we were in. At that moment, I knew we could ask no more of Ginny.
I made an appointment for 3:00 that afternoon and as I was getting off the phone, knowing I had to call C and tell him, one of my best friends at school happened to come to my office for a totally unrelated reason and I shared with her what was happening with Ginny. Meanwhile, the vet's office texted the appointment confirmation to C, so he texted me to let me know we had an appointment that afternoon.
He thought the appointment was because we were going to be bringing Ginny home.
That call to tell him that the appointment was not to bring her home, but rather to let her go, was one of the worst I have ever had to make.
If you've read any of my other posts, particularly those I wrote during the pandemic and quarantine, you know that Ginny's person was C. She loved me very much, and after Maddy's death in 2018, Ginny and I grew closer than we'd ever been. I think she needed me very desperately after she lost Maddy. She always wanted to know where I was and she would follow me around the house wherever I went. When I had to return to school last year, she spent every day with C while he worked from home, but between 3:30 and 4:00, she would wake up and go to the bottom of the stairs and just sit and wait for me to come home. I absolutely know how much she loved me. But C was her entire world.
So calling him with the news was soul-crushing.
We drove to the hospital Monday afternoon, were taken into a room, and Ginny was brought to us.
It turns out that it wasn't a tough decision after all. When we saw her, we knew. We knew she needed us to ease her pain and help her into the great beyond. What a privilege to make that decision.
We didn't have to make that decision with Chelsea; she died peacefully at home with us knowing she was loved and cherished every moment of her life.
We did make that decision five other times, with Molly, Gunni, Duchess, Sadie, and Riley. It never, ever, ever gets easier. But the alternative - like what happened with Maddy - losing one of our girls when we weren't with her, is just about the worst thing I can imagine.
What a gift, to hold her as she took her last breath. To be able to pour so much love into her during her last moments on earth. To put aside our pain and send her off in the most kind and loving way possible. To do right by her. To repay her loyalty and love and devotion by giving her the most peaceful final moments in our arms, where she'd been for over twelve years.
We would have spent our last dime trying everything possible to save her.
We would have rearranged our entire lives for her. Last weekend while we waited for the call that we could bring her home, we canceled upcoming plans and changed flight times and consulted with my mom because she would have to learn to give Ginny insulin injections any time we were away. We decided we wouldn't travel at all, with the exception of about 48 hours at the beginning of November, knowing that even that trip might be canceled depending on how Ginny did when she came home.
We would have done anything for her.
It turns out that she had done everything for us.
She fought so valiantly over her last five days. I know she was working so hard because she wanted to come home. But her little body just couldn't do any more.
When they brought her into the room, they told us to take as much time as we needed. One of the first things I said to her was, "We're together now. Everything's going to be just fine. You'll see," which is from Beauty and the Beast. I said it more for myself than for her, because the only thing that mattered to me was that the three of us were together.
We had brought two of her favorite blankets, as well as some cheese and a cheeseburger, which were her favorite things to eat. She was not interested whatsoever. She had her glucose monitor attached to her, as well as the third catheter in her hind leg. Her belly had been shaved for the ultrasounds they did, her other hind leg had been shaved for the second catheter they tried, and her neck had been shaved for the original catheter that was placed in her jugular.
What was most evident was how tired she looked. Her eyes told us she was ready.
We each held her and hugged her and then lied on the floor with her.
We played two songs for her. "Love is Like a Butterfly" by Dolly Parton has always been "her" song; I would play it and she would let me hold her or dance around with her in my arms. She'd nuzzle in my neck and sigh happily. She was not always the most affectionate dog, but there was something so magical about that song. She knew it was hers and somehow it meant love to her and I wanted her to hear it one more time.
The second song was "Unlonely" by Jason Mraz, which became "our" song after Maddy passed away in August 2018. During that school year, 2018-19, I stayed home to help my mom with her recovery, so Ginny and I were together all the time. I don't think I would have made it without Ginny that year because between my mom's battle and losing Maddy, I was in a very dark place. I'm a huge Jason Mraz fan, and this is not really one of his big hits, but it was such a perfect song for Ginny and me. Some of my favorite lyrics from the song:
I could be your one and only;
I could make you unlonely
and
I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity to say:
"Hey! We should be homies!
I think we could be bigger than cheese and macaroni
We could keep it sweet like Chachi and Joanie
Or maybe just be ourselves, never phony"
Never second guessing the friendship connection
Parallel living, never in possession
of your individual personal expression
Together we're just a much better reflection
of love
She was the cheese to my macaroni. I wanted to remind her that she always would be.
When it was time, we sat on the floor and I held her so C could have his hands on her face and look into her eyes. The internal medicine vet sat on the floor with us near Ginny's back leg where the catheter was located and talked us through the whole thing, while being so respectful as we cried and talked to Ginny and loved on her.
It was a very peaceful end. No more pain; no more tests and needles and pills. Just sweet sleep.
She was from a Dachshund rescue organization, but she was actually the one who saved us, time and time again. When we said goodbye to one of her seven sisters. When other tough times and sad events happened. She was always there. She really worked her magic over this past year-and-a-half, keeping C company as he worked from home; keeping us sane because we took her for car rides every night just to get out of the house in a safe way. It was such a routine that when my mom would go to bed, she'd say to Ginny, "Have a fun car ride!" and whenever we talked to C's parents on the phone, the conversation ended with, "We'll let you go; we know you've got to take Ginny for her car ride."
Our house is so quiet and empty now, and that is something we will have to get used to. We've had eight dogs. My mom has had five. My brother has had one. At one time or another, all thirteen of those dogs have lived in our house. So many wagging tails, so many dog beds, so much barking. Not anymore. Of those thirteen wonderful creatures, only one remains - my brother's dog, Max, who was the love of Ginny's life. They live in NY now and I am counting down the days until I can throw my arms around Max's neck and smother him with love because he is such a connection to Ginny for me.
We miss our girl. I've done a lot of reading about grief over the past few years and I know eventually I won't cry when her name is mentioned. I know the happy memories we created with her will serve as a balm for our pain. I know she will live on forever in our hearts and through the stories we will tell about her. I really do know these things. But right now, the hurt is so raw. The open wound will slowly heal and a scar will take its place and I will wear that scar proudly for the rest of my days. It will serve as a reminder of all the love we shared.
"Life is made up of meetings and partings.
That is the way of it."
~ Muppet Christmas Carol ~
What a reunion she must have had with her sisters.
Of the thousands of pics we have of Ginny, these are some of my favorites. Most of them are from the last year or so and I didn't include any of her with her sisters, as those can be found in other posts. These ones are all about Ginny.
Happy Tails to you...
