I had my dog of fifteen years put to sleep (killed by a veterinarian) last week. I stayed with her through the entire process, holding and petting her while the veterinarian administered the shot. It was my decision, and I am sure that if I could have asked her whether or not she wanted to die at that particular moment, she would have said 'no'. It was an extremely difficult decision to make, and once made, I had to act immediately on it, because I knew if I waited even a few hours, I would put off acting on the decision, which was one that in all likelihood was going to have to be made anyhow, in the not-too-distant future.
It was the first time I ever had an actual decision on euthanasia placed in front of me, and to anyone who has ever loved a dog will realise, the decision is no less difficult because the individual in question is 'just a pet'. My dog was a person to me - more of a person than most human beings I know, or have ever known. I spent more time with her than I ever will with most members of my own species, and in all honesty, I can think of very few human beings that I would want to be around, for such extended periods of time. I am sure that I will address the subject of euthanasia more directly in the future, but not now, the event is still to close for me to view it with any clarity.
Since June of 1994, when I had a stroke, we were together almost constantly. I must have become her 'project', and she was determined to take care of me, and 'fix' me with attention and affection. She taught me the value of taking her for long walks, and showed me all of the best alleys, and eventually, after two and a half years of being led around by my dog, the deep depression that I was in began to lessen somewhat, and I began to paint, and study, and think.
In 1999 I painted my first picture of her, sitting on the radiator under the front window (her favourite perch), staring wistfully out onto the street, waiting for 'out', which was the high point of every day, even more so than 'food', although it was a very close call. This watercolour, as I view it now, seems as much a picture of my depression at the time, as anything else. I lived in a very dark place for a very long time, and in reality, I still remain there to a lesser degree, and will in all likelihood never completely leave - such is the nature of depression. It is my dog that is looking hopefully out into the light, not myself. I am looking only to the dog.
Roughly one week before her death, I completed my second and final painting of her, once again in silhouette, waiting patiently in my car while I dined inside the restaurant, knowing that there would be some meat for her, as 'dog treats' had by then become a firmly ingrained part of our lives. She was very old, about fifteen years, and the past year had been very difficult for her, with a period of several months time when she was almost completely unable to get around, and I had to carry her up and down stairs, while she recovered gradually as best she could from an injury. After that, our walks were fewer, and shorter, but still the high point of her life, even though they left her exhausted and limping after about a mile.
She had become increasingly fearful, first of thunder and lightening, then of rain in general, then of all strangers, and finally of being alone, even for an hour or two. I took her to the veterinarian, and had him administer a lethal injection.
Summer has been late this year. It is June, and still cold and rainy, and I am in no particular hurry to have the heat of summer come. During the last few months of my dog's life, I had only gone for occasional walks, when she was in the mood. Going for a walk without her seemed inconceivable. During the past week, since her death, I have begun to revive the habit of going walking, only now, alone. There is no sense in giving up the lessons I have learned from a dog... lessons that include 'walking is good', and 'even when in darkness, look to the light.