Canter Bridge

Tucker left us this week just as he came and just as he lived with us: completely trusting our judgment, celebrating our company, gratefully accompanying us wherever we led him.

The trend line of his cancer tilted downward at a deeper angle in these last weeks. Though he seemed as happy and almost as energetic as ever, the losing battle to keep his face and our home clean from the massive tumor’s debris taxed him and us. We lit scented candles against the odor of death. It became harder and harder to cuddle him. He seemed to protect us from the affected side of his face, but his suffering was palpable and things were not going to improve.

I was away on business Monday through Thursday. In my absence, Tucker grew worse. With merciful clarity, it became obvious that we must do the evil deed when I returned home on Friday.

Our family was very much helped by Dr. T.J. Dunn’s article, Euthanasia: what to expect. I highly recommend it to pet owners facing the demise of their beloved animal. I can’t imagine adding surprise to the sorrow of the trip to the vet, as we might have without the briefing that this empathetic veterinarian’s article provides.

On Friday, June 20th, Tucker jumped into the car with the four of us with the same vigor that ‘Car ride!’ always elicited from his eager heart. The staff of Michigan Road Animal Hospital was superb, as ever. I couldn’t speak as I filled out the required forms. The person behind the counter made every effort to preserve my dignity and privacy in the context of a waiting room full of pets and pet owners who would go home together that day.

My wife stayed inside while I retreated to the parking lot, where our two sons and Tucker waited. Tucker’s tail thrashed in ‘Let’s play!’ mode each time he saw another dog. I wiped the tumor’s constantly flowing detrius from his lips and jowls. Son Johnny, who had recently emailed me about taking Tucker on his ‘final run’, cuddled him and scatched his head.

When we were called back in, the veterinarian—when asked, he indicated that he averages one euthanasia per day!—patiently explained everything that was about to occur. Tucker could not produce a good vein for the injection, a glitch that caused him some discomfort because of the needle’s various probings. I had hoped this would not happen. Tucker is so seldom fretful and I very much wanted his last moments to be anxiety free. The assistant took him briefly into another room to prepare an IV catheter.

When he came back to us, we gathered on the floor around him, stroked him, and talked with him. In what seemed a final treachery, I assured him over and over that ‘It’s ok, Tucker’. Yet this was not ok. Death and grief are penultimate, not final. They are not ok. They are a monstrous blot on creation that will one day be removed.

But not just yet.

Under the barbituate’s flow, Tucker faded from awareness of our loving company in ten to fifteen seconds. He was dead in fewer than thirty.

It seems far too fast. He had been preternaturally patient for a life time and always with us. Now he was gone, and suddenly. I wept.

The veterinarian and his assistant left us alone to take leave of him. It was awful to see his inert body, eyes open, laying on the floor never to greet me again after a business trip, never to tear around the park on our runs with his uncanny speed and energy.

Two days later, I can appreciate the closure that a largely painless death brought to this friend’s loving life. I find myself bonding with Rosie, our Rhodesian Ridgeback, as perhaps never before. She is enjoying her promotion from ‘second favorite dog’. Yet even Rosie seems a bit disconcerted by the absence of her friend. She had to be fed by hand on the first morning after, this voracious feeder who on other days virtually attacks her dog dish as though the stunning novelty called ‘Dog food!’ had been invented overnight and were being presented to her wondering taste buds for the very first time.

Tucker is gone. It seems impossible.

Where is the love?