Op-Ed Columns

It didn't happen overnight, no sudden jolt of old-age reality. As the days passed, from summer to fall, he rose each morning, sometimes eager for the sunrise, other times killing a few blades of grass, wobbling back down the hallway and returning to bed.

He was old, tired, cranky, wanting little but rest and a few tickles under his chin.

He was indestructible, or so I thought.

Oh, he didn't like people.

He was a loner, content to keep to himself and sit in the corner.

He'd convalesced a decade ago at Auburn, where we'd hoped the state's best vet school could work its magic. It did. We were eternally grateful.

He'd had ultrasounds and biopsies before his snout turned gray.

He'd endured the sting of pinched nerves and bulging disks in his back.

Five years ago, he'd mourned the loss of his brother.

And then his family let him down. We didn't clean his teeth enough. We failed him.

In two years' time, his mouth filled repeatedly with rot and bacteria. Once his face exploded in a bloody mess and unimaginable pain, the kitchen a Helter Skelter-like scene. Each vet visit brought the same result: more teeth pulled, more throbbing soreness for an 8-pound dog, a recurring hope that we'd done enough to make his final years as pain-free as possible.

Eventually, he was toothless. He gummed his gruel each morning, his tongue licking the mashed-up, moistened food off a fork.

Sometimes he ate; often he showed only scant interest. But we didn't worry much; he was too tough, we thought, unwilling to succumb to anything not catastrophic. His self-survival skills were legendary.

He'd withstood back pain, liver examinations, Prozac, canine mourning, bloody facial wounds, arthritis from one end to the other, and three surgeries to remove rotten teeth. He hated cold weather, and somehow he'd even endured what passes for winter around here.

He was indestructible, tougher than anyone I knew. Certainly tougher than I am.

Yet his decline began slowly, unnoticeable to most, including me. He was dying, and we didn't fully understand it.

His appetite, usually sporadic, dimmed over the weekend. He sniffed at his food, ate a few bites on Saturday, not much more on Sunday. He lost what little weight he had. His demeanor changed. His eyes sunk. Outsiders couldn't tell, but we could. He wasn't the same.

Monday and Tuesday came and went with little improvement. It'd been at least three days: No food, only a little water. He rose to see us off to work and school, and again to welcome us home at night. But most of his hours were spent curled in his bed, sometimes asleep, other times resting his 15-year-old bones.

One night after the family had long retired, my wife tried a different approach. By now it was Thursday morning, a few hours after midnight. Alone with our companion, she took a syringe, filled it with warm milk and tried to keep him alive. He swallowed a few squirts of the white liquid; a few didn't turn to vomit.

It was 2 a.m.

My wife knew. The end was near.

Thursday afternoon, the vet called. The diagnosis was horrific: renal failure and pancreatitis. His kidneys were gone. His pancreas was inflamed. He likely was in severe pain, I thought. So a few hours later, the family met in a small room where, in short sentences and a humane way, the vet explained the grave symptoms and the few options.

She might be able to help the pancreatitis, depending on the severity. She could not restart his kidneys. I knew the truth; she was a vet, a pro, but not God.

My wife, eyes reddened, glanced my way.

"He's ready to go," she said, somehow.

I nodded in agreement, and soon signed the papers that ended our companion's life. This is how it would end? After all the surgeries and hospitalizations? Like this, in a hallway with a piece of paper on a clipboard?

When it was time, the vet did her job with unexpected compassion and care. She stroked his head, speaking to him calmly as the first needle went in. Lying in his bed, his chin resting on my arm, a peace settled over his frail frame. She left us alone. I said my goodbyes.

Ten minutes later, the vet returned. Another needle. His pain gone.

All I could do was apologize and hope I'd done the right thing.

A few days have passed, hardly enough. I still think about my wife's best friend, my son's pal, the only dog my daughter's ever known.

And hope he's having a good day, free of the pain that took him from this Earth.