Baxter was getting worse. He had been diagnosed with a debilitating and painful back problem common to most hounds - the joy of having long, heavy bodies and short legs. We both knew the time was coming to end his suffering. And, to end ours. He was fighting valiantly, but his pain was getting worse.
"How will I know when THAT day has come?" I asked my veterinarian.
"You are the only one who can answer that," she replied. She tugged gently at Baxter's ear. "You will know when it is time."
I decided that Baxter would tell me as I drove home. I didn't know how he would tell me that it was that time, but I knew he would find a way. He had a gift for communication and I was sure he would let his feelings be known. I just had to recognize his hints and signs.
Coping with the thought of euthanasia was started when I first found out about his medical condition. I knew I would do all I could to help him fight. We went to all sorts of specialists. We tried medications, herbal remedies, and even vitamins. Baxter took painful injections directly into his spine daily to get his pain under control. As his pain became more manageable, those injections were reduced. My financial resources dwindled. I even sold my back-up car and dipped into my retirement fund to keep him pain-free.
How was Baxter going to tell me it was time? I watched him closely, waiting for him to let me know. We spent as much time together as possible. Thankfully, I worked from home so he wasn't alone during the day. We took car rides together and walks. I was slowly preparing myself for the inevitable. In the back of my mind, I was constantly wondering when and how Baxter would let me know his pain was too great and it was time for me to "help" him for the last time.
He walked slower, but his tail was constantly wagging when we went for our walks. Baxter's appetite was just as it had always been.; I had to keep an eye him because he would eat anything he could reach. He would even forget to use the ramps I had set up to help him get on our bed and up the steps of the front porch. Baxter's eyes would light up when I would get his leash or get his treats out of the pantry. I watched as he chased birds out of his backyard. Baxter was not giving me any clues it was getting close to his time for me to help him. Time marched on; I waited and kept loving him and caring for him.
Baxter had always taken his medicine so well. He never balked or complained. I didn't even have to "ball" his pills in a treat. I would hold it in my open hand and say, "Here is your feel better num-num" and he would eat it without any problems. One day, that changed. He turned his head several times as I held out my hand with his pills on them. I coaxed him softly, promising a treat after wards. Still, he refused. Tears streaming, the pills went back in the bottle and I headed to the telephone. "He told me it was time," I heard myself say once the vet was on the line. "We are on our way."
Baxter, with my help, got into the car. He couldn't do it himself today. I drove slowly to the vet's office. I pulled into the driveway, but didn't stop. I made a quick u-turn and headed to Dairy Queen. He and I always go an ice cream cone after he went to the vet. Today, we would go before the visit. I didn't know if he knew why there was a change in our routine, but I did. I sobbed out our order of two soft-serve ice cream cones to the voice coming from the metal box. I didn't even wait for my change after I was handed the two cones; I drove off and parked in the first spot available. Ice cream never tasted so awful. Thankfully, Baxter enjoyed his and helped me finish mine.
With over fifteen years experience working with animals, I knew the drill. I had participated in the euthanasia of hundreds of animals myself at the animal shelter where I had worked. I knew the procedure; I didn't just know what to expect once it was finished. I had been present every single time one of our animals had to be "helped," but each time I had a different reaction.
I had to be with Baxter, just as I had for all of my other pets. I had been with him for everything else and I would not leave Baxter alone to face this. I wasn't sure how I would find the strength to be with him, but I knew he could not be alone. I was not going to abandon my Baxter in his last moments.
The clinic's entire staff came to waiting room to say their good-byes to Baxter. He was an office favorite. Hugs and kisses for both of us from everyone. "You two have been so brave," one of the teen-agers who cleaned the kennels said, hugging Baxter and shaking the paw Baxter offered him. This young man had been the one who had so gently moved Baxter when the heavy Basset couldn't get up by himself. There wasn't a dry eye in the building as Baxter and I made our way to the exam room.
The vet and vet technician were waiting. The table was laid out just as I had expected. I remember looking at the needle. It was so ugly and mean looking. I hated that needle, yet I loved it. That needle would end all his pain, unlike all the other needles we had subjected him to. With trembling hands, the vet picked up the needle and asked Baxter for his paw. He was sitting in my lap, all eighty pounds of him, but he still reached out his paw towards her, tail wagging.
"I'm sorry. I can't see the vein," the vet said as she pulled the needle away from his leg. I looked up to see tears streaming down her cheeks as well. "This is harder than I thought it would be."
Baxter was gone in a matter of seconds. The three of us broke down, sobbing and crying. There was no comforting any of us. The tech took Baxter out of my arms. We had made arrangements for her to come to my house and help dig his grave months earlier. She had volunteered to do this. She said it helped with her grieving process. She also offered to help me gather up all of his things, when I was ready for that.
I walked around in a stupor for several days. I had foster animals to care for, so I was busy, but I still ached deep inside. His toys were still about and his leash was still hanging on the hook by the front door. The indention of his body was still on the bed, close to his ramp. I avoided that spot. I slept on the couch for several days - couldn't bring myself to sleep in our bed.
I ate very little and cried a lot. I had to remember to turn off the alarms that went off when it was time for his medications. I found some peace caring for the other animals in my charge and writing all my thoughts and feelings down in the notebook I had kept about him. I was grieving and it would take time. Lots of time. I had the blessing of coping with this for months before it actually happened, but it would still take time.
The vet tech stopped by after work to help me gather up Baxter's things. I had called her to take her up in her generous offer. He had been a rescue dog, like all my other non-human family members, so I decided to take them to the shelter I had saved him from. Some of his things, I kept. His leash was put into a box, as was his "bed bed" blanket and stuffed banana squeaky toy. I took the box to the shelter, explaining each item as I handed it to the volunteer who was helping me. I didn't know her and she didn't know me, but we both cried as I told her all about Baxter and our life together.
"Thank you; it is wonderful you cared enough to let us have these things," she told me. "He sounded like a great dog. These things will help other great dogs as they get ready to go to their homes."
Looking around the shelter that day was something I had no intention of doing. I wasn't ready. I didn't know if I would ever be ready. As I was leaving, I heard a howl and I felt compelled to see who was calling to me. I made my way down the wire cages until I found the owner of that howl. It was a bloodhound mix puppy. Tripping over it's long ears, it ran to me. Ignoring the sign that said not to open the cage door, I scooped up that puppy.
"You must be Nadia," I told her before even checking to see if she was a girl. I knew her name right away. She went home with me right away.
Nadia was not a replacement for Baxter. Nothing could ever replace him. I am still grieving and it has been over ten years since I "helped" him that last time. I still cope with the guilt and the sadness. The only things that gives me any comfort is knowing his last few years were spent with me, not as a homeless pet. I also take comfort in that we both were loved and he knew I did all I could to make him happy and comfortable. I still have periods of time when I cry over my decision. This is one of those moments. I am still coping with loosing him. I always will be.