You have said goodbye to your sweet pet.  Maybe it was a cat you’d originally obtained as a neonate orphaned kitten that you decided to foster/hand-raise and after being weaned, it decided it would claw anyone else besides you to death, thereby becoming yours furever.  Or perhaps it was a dog you adopted when they were a young adult, their early puppy years a mysterious past you for which could only fill in blanks (he was born into a circus dog family, cast out by himself when he failed to master dancing the Charleston on a tightrope like his siblings for whom this came so naturally).  Maybe it was your father’s elderly cat, perhaps a jerk of a feline but the only remaining connection to your dad after they passed away, or maybe your father was the jerk and you just wanted to finally give his sweet kitty a loving home.  Possibly you decided to research the rarest bunny breed (say “Sumatran short-haired” 5 times in a row fast) and traveled thousands of miles away to obtain said bunny (I will try my best not to judge you for this).  Or it could have been a wild raccoon that decided to make you its mommy and you just couldn’t say no.  For the latter, I hope you were rabies-vaccinated.  

They come into our lives in all manners and situations, but how they leave is usually some variation of the same.  For those of us who are lucky enough to have owned a pet, we know deep down in the denial part of our brain that we will one day have to let them go, only having the photos and videos, and most importantly, the memories left behind.  And possibly a box of ashes (which will either sit on your shelf or you will ceremoniously throw into the ocean by the beach they used to romp by and take some of their most favorite shits). It is part of owning a pet and the price we must pay for receiving that infinite joy they bring to our lives.  And we masochistically do this to ourselves, many of us over and over, like a very fun ride that we know will end in a horrible tragic carnival accident, but one we can’t help but get on again and again.  Getting a new pet, a new addition–never a replacement, don’t you dare–can be tricky.  Is it Too Soon?  Like when you make a pee joke at the expense of someone who just literally the day before urinated themselves in public?  Or do some of us wait too long and miss out on the therapeutic love that a pet brings to your home, like holding out for the new iphone until your’s spontaneously combusts because the version is so old.  Anna, you ask, how can you be relating iphones or urination jokes to the loss of a pet? You are a veterinarian and should be full of compassion. You sound like a real asshole.   The truth is, I can promise you I am brimming with compassion.  But, as an emergency veterinarian who has to put suffering animals to sleep every week of my life, there must be some levity, and some acceptance that it is a part of the life of a pet-owning human.  

Also, it just recently happened to me too, and I am trying to find the humor where I can, to ease the pain of losing my sweet Welly.  By “recent,” it was actually months ago, but I’ve only now found the ability to write about it without fully shorting out my laptop in a flood of tears.

Welly (formally and ridiculously known as “Sir Beef of Wellington”) came to us not long after I had lost the love of my life dog, Philip.  His full name was Phoophoo Philip J. Fluffernutter, attorney at dog, Esq and was mostly labrador with shepherd mixed in and had this adorable blonde ass which stood starkly out against his dark brown fur.   Philip was with me at all times, slept under the covers with me, and was partially laying in my lap as I was driving my shitty Honda CRX with its duct taped bumper and no heat when I got the call that I had gotten into UPenn vet school.  He was ring bearer in my first wedding and he was waiting for us patiently the day we brought home my oldest daughter from the hospital when she was only a few days old.  At 12 years old, he developed a spinal tumor and was in such pain and couldn’t walk that he/we decided his suffering needed to be over.  We fed him Thanksgiving dinner leftovers and my sweet vet friend came to my house and did it for me, as I wailed on top of Philip, giant tears falling into the mashed potatoes in front of his face.  We moved soon after to another house outside Philadelphia, and I felt the void.  I had felt that no creature could replace Philip, but in a new house I thought that perhaps new memories could be made and my daughters needed to grow up knowing the love of a dog.  

Adopting Welly

Welly was one year old when we adopted him.  He looked like a black lab but had a white patch on his chest.  He was sensitive and sweet and calm. He rarely barked.  I remember meeting him and immediately wondering if he didn’t have a bit of Philip’s soul in him. This thought made me feel guilty but comforted and also too embarrassed to really admit to anyone.  If I did mention it I would nervously laugh and preface it with “I mean I don’t really believe in, like, reincarnation and stuff but …”   He didn’t like any yelling and his worst fault was he would sometimes spitefully chew up inedible objects when we left him alone for what he deemed was “too Iong”.  He didn’t like thunderstorms or fireworks and I would always hug him tight and pretend to be a human “thundershirt” which I’m not sure how much he enjoyed but he always humored me.  But he was like a male dog version of Mary Poppins, practically perfect in every way.  Right after I adopted him, I remember taking him out to an empty ballfield near our house and he ran the bases, doing the most aggressive zoomies I have ever witnessed.  His ears flapping in the wind, his body bounding in the air, it all made me cry tears of joy as I’d found something I hadn’t even admitted I was missing.  

Welly was with me through my divorce and move to a new state.  He went with the flow and welcomed new cats and a new goofball bestie, Hampstead, a rejected Guiding Eyes For the Blind labrador who would come to be known as Fat Hampy as he ballooned in size, using his prior training for nefarious food stealing purposes.  

Welly also withstood a senior acquisition puggle named Bill Nye the Science Dog (although the only scientific experiments this dog was conducting were “Which Smells Worse, My Breath or Your Garbage Can: A Qualitative Analysis” and “How Long Can Human Withstand Me Obsessively LIcking Their Feet?”–my time was a few seconds, Sean seemed to allow/enjoy a longer licking sesh). 

Welly was our rock

Throughout much change, Welly was my constant, and a calming, soothing rock for my girls.  Sean fell in love with him instantly, cuddling with him on our couch the third time he ever came to my house and the first time he met my daughters, and it seemed they had known each other for years.  Sean is low drama, even-handed, craves peace and Welly was the same.  When Sean and I moved in together, I was pretty sure I was replaced as Welly’s favorite, but that was ok because I suspected they were soulmates.  If the house got too chaotic or loud, he would just go hang out in someone’s quiet room.

He loved Sean’s boys and I know they both appreciated his quiet and sweet presence in their lives.  He always wanted to be near someone, as long as they weren’t screaming.  I imagine he probably wasn’t the biggest fan of Shep during his crying baby and boisterous toddler years, but, again, took it all in stride.

He was a healthy dog until he turned 12.

During the time I had him since he was 1 year of age, he was never really ever sick.  A few years ago I thought he had a tooth root abscess but it turned out to be a chewed up LEGO man stuck up underneath his gumline.  Probably a retaliatory destruction of property on a day he felt slighted that we had left him without company far too many hours. Other than that, his hybrid vigor kept him going strong.  So when at age 12 he was suddenly vomiting and refusing to eat full meals, I felt a lump in my throat, knowing it could be something not great.  Blood work showed quickly failing kidneys that had caught up to him.  An ultrasound of his abdomen also showed a tumor on his prostate.  None of this was good.  I hospitalized him, putting him on IV fluids and supportive meds and he bounced back.  But his kidneys were degenerating and I knew he had limited time.  I also made the decision not to treat his prostate tumor.  I have nothing against treating pets for cancer and have done so before with other pets when I thought it would really make a difference and not put them through anything unnecessary.  But his treatment would have included radiation of the prostatic mass and that necessitates multiple general anesthesias for dogs.  With his bad kidneys and his general desire for a low-key life, I decided it wasn’t for him.  A nonsteroidal antiinflammatory can also be used for treatment, but this was not compatible with his kidney disease. There weren’t a lot of options that were great for him, and I accepted that as pragmatically as possible when you love a creature so much you wish they were immortal.  Or, at the very least, that there existed human-to-dog kidney transplants and you would be willing to give up yours (or perhaps Sean his, seeing as they were soulmates…)

Me whispering to him he has to get better and an in-cage visit from little bro

For a few months, he did great.  He was eating his special kidney diet, zooming around the yard with Fat Hampy and our mini pig Ted.  When he rested it was on the couch peacefully next to Bill, making it look like we were becoming a senior living center for dogs.  He was allowed to sleep wherever he wanted and given a multitude of pets and chin/chest rubs.  I gave him subcutaneous (under the skin) fluids intermittently to help.

When he suddenly felt ill again and his kidney blood values were worsening, I hospitalized him for another try.  This time he didn’t bounce back.  He looked very sad.  I was very sad too.  I acknowledge that deciding for another creature that it’s their time to pass from this earth is one of the most difficult decisions of a lifetime. But with Welly, I knew in my heart, without debating or any long pondering, it was time.  I only had to search his eyes and I could see the effort with which he was existing.  It makes me cry right now to think about that; true love is when someone else’s suffering hurts you.  That most horrible terrible decision of euthanasia is soothed and made bearable, knowing you are helping to ease their pain.  One of my fellow vets at work came out to our house and did the deed for us.  Despite sadly having to do this for thousands of other peoples’ pets, it’s most certainly not something I could ever do for my own.  It happened under the pines in the backyard, his favorite place to rest.  All the kids, Sean and me, gathered around, stroking him, whispering our goodbyes, telling him one last time what a good boy he was.

Right after they are gone, you look for them in all their normal spots, around corners and when the parade of dogs come in from outside you wait for them for a few moments before you remember. When you are reminded, you feel the loss all over again.  To ease the pain of this repetitive scenario, you remind yourself how lucky you were to have known them, all they contributed to your life, the beauty of a good dog and what that can do for your soul. 

Working in the vet ER, we often have owners come in, wanting confirmation that it’s “time.” There are now rubrics for “How Do You Know It’s Time to Say Good-bye to Your Pet,” quality of life quizzes and scales.  A few of the most commonly used and respected Quality of LIfe scales used include Lap of Love’s https://www.lapoflove.com/how-will-i-know-it-is-time/lap-of-love-quality-of-life-scale.pdf and Dr. Alice Villalobos’ https://www.veterinarypracticenews.com/quality-of-life-scale. For pet owners struggling with the decision, breaking it down like this can definitely be helpful.  The scales have to do with basic body function, what makes our pets happy, and how easily they get around.  Yes, I think you can pick 3 top things your pet loves to do and if two out of three of these things are no longer being experienced, then it’s likely time to start going down that path.  It can be extremely helpful with slow, long, drawn-out illnesses, where a pet’s “normal” slowly drifts down over time and it can be hard to see the bigger picture. Ultimately for me, it’s more of just a feeling.  I answer this question to pet owners by pointing out that they came to the emergency room of a hospital today, to see a vet they have probably never met before, to have a quality of life talk because they felt their dog was suffering so much it just couldn’t wait anymore.  I tell them their gut and their heart are letting them know that they searched their pet’s eyes and their pet told them it was time.  There is almost always guilt over this decision and I feel that one of my jobs is to try to alleviate that as much as possible.  Our pets really decide for us, they just need us to do one last kind thing for them.  They cannot do it for themselves and need our assistance so that they do not suffer unnecessarily.  I tell them how very very difficult it is, but it is the most unselfish thing they could ever do for their pet.  And I mean that with all my heart.

The other question I receive, not infrequently, is: “When should I get another dog/cat/bunny/racoon?”  The answer to this is much trickier.  We have to grieve, and everyone must do this in their own way.  Many owners are in such pain they cannot fathom taking on this eventual heartache again, I think it’s similar to post-partum moms who have had a horrible labor and swear never to get pregnant again (usually this is screamed using expletives).  With variable amounts of time, both of these scenarios usually have a fading of the negative associated emotions and our brains and hearts are ready again.  For some, they now have only one pet at home that was part of a pair and this remaining pet is searching and bored and depressed in their own way.  For others, there are traumatized kids in the family who benefit from the distraction and joy brought by a new pet.  In our own case, it was a bit ironic because we have an inordinate amount of living creatures in our home.  There is always noise, activity and the specific sound of paws running around.  And yet, we felt the lack of Welly’s presence declare itself blaringly loud, despite him having been the most quiet of all.  

I want to pretend and say it was my kids that fueled it.  But very shortly after Welly’s passing, I contacted the Guiding Eyes for the Blind and asked to be on the list for adoption of medical releases.  These are dogs who would have been guide dogs if not for some medical condition, some big and some minor, and are adopted out to veterinary professionals.  I didn’t really expect anything to come of this quickly, I had waited years on a list to adopt that troublesome fatass of a Hampy. They said he failed because of a “soft trachea” problem but I suspect it was more his extreme driving motivation to eat whatever he could. They told me they tried to repurpose him for a group called Healing Hands for Autism, where they tether the dogs to children who are impulsive flight risks and…evidently this didn’t go so great. So at 23 months of age we adopted him and got a fully trained pure bread Labrador who knew how to unscrew jar lids and successfully use door knobs for what became nefarious food addiction purposes. This time around we almost  immediately received an email from the Guiding Eyes coordinator saying she had a lab puppy with a congenital liver shunt, and I found myself already saying yes in my head.  

The puppy in question was only 5 months old and had been diagnosed with something called an intrahepatic portosystemic shunt.  Essentially it’s a congenital problem where an abnormal blood vessel forms within the liver and diverts blood that is supposed to go back and be processed by the liver.  Instead, there is unfiltered blood going back to the circulation and this causes substances to build up that have toxic effects on the brain and also lead to stomach/intestinal issues and poor growth. Think of diarrhea water being diverted from the water treatment plant and going right back to the source for drinking, only on a scale within a living creature’s body.  I acknowledge this sounds absolutely terrible and not the ideal adoption candidate.  The good news is that theoretically this is fixable and these dogs can have a procedure when they are fully grown that is fairly noninvasive and utilizes fluoroscopy (real-time x-ray).  Sean was not feeling it. He said this seems problematic and why don’t we simplify things instead of complicating them? Fair point, yes.  I also think he still was missing his Welly (or as he nicknamed him: J’Welly, Wells Fargo and Billy Dee Welliams–I told you they were special friends and I wished I’d known Welly’s nicknames for Sean–I’ll bet they were damn creative too).  Like I said, though, everyone takes their own time.  Once the kids were aware and onboard, however, Sean’s opinion didn’t stand a chance.  This happened years prior when we got our mini pig, Ted, too.  In a world of people, Sean did choose to marry a veterinarian, so I think at some point there is a deep inner voice in him also wanting a million pets.  Or maybe he just didn’t have the energy to put up a fight.  Probably that.  

Meet Fallon

We got Fallon aka “Lady Mudflaps of Montauk” in August and she was the sweetest most docile thing you’ve ever seen.  Her disease makes her extremely chill, so unlike most puppies who want to chew on everything and dismantle your home, she mostly just wants to cuddle and her puppy naps are more like puppy comas.  She will occasionally get excited for a few seconds, bucking like a happy bronco in the air, then she tires immediately and zonks out on someone’s lap for hours.  My kids kept marveling at her, “I can’t believe she’s really ours!” and I felt some of the sadness of losing Welly being replaced with excitement and an immediate transference of love.  I knew her medical condition was making her extremely calm and chill but I couldn’t again help but wonder if there was a bit of Welly in her soul.  I kept this fully to myself this time, except now when I am admitting it to you all, please don’t think I’m crazy even though obviously I am.   Because she needs medication daily and small frequent meals of a special diet, I was bringing her to work with me and she became an immediate favorite there too.  During a stressful work day, there would sometimes be a line of people to come into my office and get some huffs of puppy breath and cuddles.  Sean observed that she was like my own therapy dog, and he wasn’t wrong.

Hanging with her new big bro

Everybody’s fav

Fitting right in

We had a bit of a scare recently where she got into something outside in the yard and got sick.  She can’t eat much protein or it makes her significantly worse, so she’s quite a sensitive soul.  After a bout in the hospital, she returned home where I could continue to recover her from the episode.  The diarrhea was intense and Sean (who didn’t want this puppy in the first place) laid down a tarp on our living room floor and helped me give her enemas outside on our deck.  As she started to slowly feel better, I’m sure it was magical for him to have her jump up and paint his pants with her poop-pudding covered paws.

Her acute worsening scared my kids and I paused to wonder what kind of terrible decision I had made–what if she doesn’t do well? Mom, she isn’t going to die, IS she? was the beseeching question that I had to partially lie in response to and say “oh, no way!” while inside I suffered anxious anguish: What if we can’t medically manage her before she’s fully grown and can have her procedure? What if her procedure doesn’t work? Even with everything done right, some aren’t good candidates. What have I done? echoed in my head, my mom guilt washing over me.   And then I realized: This Is Life.  And life does mean eventual death.  All I know is that we can give her the best life we can for however long that is, hopefully teaching my kids that although sometimes life is fleeting, the love and caring you put forth is worth it.  ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than…ok you get what I’m trying to say.  There is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to these things.  What is ok for one family might be absolutely wrong for another.  We have to just keep trusting our guts, our hearts. This is what I tell the pet owners that ask me when they should get a new pet.  

And now I must go to make a home-cooked meal for her daily including hard-boiled egg, cottage cheese, rice, vegetarian hypoallergenic kibble and a plethora of supplements and multiple medications, something in my wildest dreams I never thought I would be willing to do.  But there I am, making my kids lunches next to my lemon puppy’s bespoke meal every morning, like the happy optimistic idiot that I am.  To paraphrase my favorite Irving Townsend quote from The Once Again Prince: we can’t accept the awful gaps that happen when we choose to surround ourselves with lives more fleeting than our own.  But, we would still live no other way. (Sean might tell you he would, but I don’t believe him for a second).