Letting go....

This week, my family and I made the exceedingly difficult decision to put our beloved dog, Hobbs, to sleep. I hate that term. “Put to sleep” seems so inadequate to explain the magnitude of this choice but he did pass so peacefully.

Hobbit Copernicus Balthazor was an 18-ish year old Rat Terrier we adopted as a rescue over 11 years ago. His background was sketchy as most rescues are. They said he had been picked up in the Utah desert. He had been adopted once before by a family with an autistic son but returned when Hobbs was not as amenable as they thought he should be. He lived with a foster for a while with other dogs and cats and who said he was good with other pets. Good might have been a strong adjective as he loved to chase our cats and generally only tolerated other dogs. They said he was five, but our veterinarian said he was probably closer to seven. Originally, we had been interested in another dog at the rescue, but they suggested Hobbs. He was our destiny.

A proud little dude, he had the terrier fierceness and a love of adventure. In his younger years, he went on so many hikes that we tried to make him wear doggie shoes to help support his tiny feet. He did not abide. His strong barrel chest in his little 15 lb. body was able to pull my youngest son on his scooter throughout the neighborhood for the required after school walks. He was so diligent in keeping sentry looking out our front window, that he stained the top of the leather couch cushion where he would sit.

He loved us intensely. We were part of his pack and all others were made to beware. We watched him and warned others but sometimes it didn’t work.  Put your nose in his face and you got nipped. One unlucky plumber who said “all dogs love me” learned quickly that Hobbs did not suffer fools. But he started to mellow a bit after his first oral surgery to remove a bunch of rotted and broken teeth. Maybe his mouth just hurt. We didn't care if he didn't like other people. He loved us and we loved him and that was all that mattered.

We told him often “You are the 1%”. He needed two more surgeries to get him down to his last six serviceable teeth, one of which finally betrayed him with an abscess the last year of his life. He had a heart murmur which got worse with age and made additional surgeries too risky.  He had a luxating patella that curtailed the hiking but still allowed for daily walks until almost the last year. He pulled a muscle, we think while jumping on to the bed, that only an MRI diagnosed $3,500 later. At 12, he had a cancerous tumor removed from his chest, but they got all of it and he never needed chemotherapy. He slowly became deaf and was beginning to lose his sight. Almost 3 years ago, he was diagnosed with heart failure and last year, he was determined to have Cushing’s disease. He was on so many pills the last year of his life that only I could get him to take them all on a regular basis. He knew the pill pocket and cheese tricks, so it was always a culinary adventure to figure out what he’d allow next. Cream cheese and chicken? Most of the time. Bacon grease and peanut butter? For a while. Braunschweiger worked for a long time and then never again. 

The last year in quarantine was a blessing for us to spend so much time with him but it also allowed us to see him in the bright glare of critical eye. For that year, I constantly second guessed myself if he had the quality of life he deserved. I enlisted my family and my friends to make sure I was not prolonging any suffering. My husband and I had a rule of three bad days, and we needed to talk. But he never got there. It was never full bad days but rather what became a series of only good moments.  He still lifted his tail and could work up to a lively jaunt when we went in the backyard, but only sometimes. He loved food and mealtime for anyone produced his best begging eyes. But that hunger might have been a side effect to his medicine. He slept a lot but never seemed to find a comfortable position to relax. He started to get lost in the house and often had accidents while sleeping.

We had gone away the week before and left Hobbs and the rest of our herd in the very capable and loving hands of our son and his girlfriend. He didn’t get any worse while we were away but in returning, we were able to truly see him for first time in a long time. My husband said, “We need to talk about Hobbs” and I made the appointment last Monday to say goodbye on Thursday. I choose an at-home euthanasia veterinarian. We’d be able to let him go in a comfortable place for us all and our other dogs could have closure too. I broke down crying after making the appointment and spent the next few days watching him so closely, I am sure I freaked him out. But I wanted confirmation that we were doing the right thing. 

To be honest, I don’t think there’s ever a right time. My wonderful veterinarian friend Amanda said, “When Hobbs stops being Hobbs” and “You don’t want his last day to be his worst day” and I took those directions to heart. But I’m still not sure if we made the decision too soon or too late. What I do know is I needed to stop worrying about the decision breaking my heart and start thinking of him.

When our other dogs woke me up with licks and snuggles the morning after Hobbs’ passing, I realized he hadn’t licked me in a long time, and I broke down in sobs. Yesterday, as I sat down in the chair at my hair stylist, she asked how my week was and again, I started crying. Writing this my chest is tightening and my eyes are watering. Oh, how I wish I could know we made the right decision at the right time. Another dear friend Heidi comforted me by saying, “You make the best decision you can with all the love in your heart and you’ve done the best you can”. Pets bring us some of the best days of our lives and one of our worst. I love my Hobbs and I miss him so much. But I am grateful we found each other and that he was part of our family.