I sit here in the wee hours of the morning thinking about my dogs. Yep, you heard me right, my dogs.
My handsome spouse and I have two canines... one old and one almost middle-aged (at least in dog years). The old one, Baron, is a lab/pitbull mix. He's buff in color (considered yellow on the days he does something wrong and gold on the days he doesn't) with a graying muzzle, cloudy eyes and arthritic hips. The middle-aged one, Delilah, is a full bred Beagle. She's tri-color with perky ears, bright brown eyes, a wagging tail and a snout that could lead her to Wyoming in a heart-beat if she ever got out of the yard unnoticed. Both our fuzzy children are equally important, equally loved and a part of our wonderful family.
However... Our darling Baron, who will turn fifteen on July 5th, has become a bit of work. He currently has better drugs than either my husband or I put together; all in the name of helping his arthritic joints do things they can't any more. He has a hard time walking, let alone going down our steps to enter the backyard to do his business. Many times, our children will yell from the yard, doorway, livingroom, diningroom etc that the dog has fallen and needs help. In zooms either myself or my husband and we pick up the dog's rear, depositing him, once again, on his feet only to watch as he hobbles off to do what it is he wanted to do; wondering if we should go back to what we were doing or follow him... in case he falls again.
My point, if there is one, in all this banter is that no one ever knows when it's 'that time'. 'That time' meaning the point at which a pet owner has to make the decision of whether their beloved family member is suffering and needs to be euthanized. I had to make a decision, such as this one, with our cat Tiberius in the Fall of '07. It wasn't a pretty situation and it was a bit more cut and dried than the one I am describing above. The poor kitty wasn't eating and was beyond help (as our vet so kindly put it). So, I made the call to put kitty out of his misery. I told the kids of my decision through tears and grit teeth and watched as, later on that evening, the vet put my cat to sleep in my arms. It was one of the hardest things I had ever had to do. Until my mom. I also had to make a similar decision (this time with my father by my side) when my mom began to lose her battle with Stage IV breast cancer in May of '08. Now, I know you're thinking... "How the hell can you compare your dog to your mom?!" Of course mom is more important and the decision was more involved, but it was still relatively the same.
However, is my dog any less loved than my mother? No.
What also complicates the matter is my husband and Baron are attached. They are attached emotionally as any dog and human can get. My husband grunts and woofs to the dog as they sit on the couch with one another and Baron grunts and woofs back. I watch as Lincoln cleans up after the dog, patting him on the head when he's done; takes the dog outside to sit in the yard while he works in the garage; hoists his rear end up, once more, when he's fallen; and lovingly calls him a golden dog (even when he's really been more yellow).
When is it 'that time' for my fifteen year old dog? I don't really know the answer. But, I do know that when it comes, I'll do my best to be there for my family, especially my husband. In the meantime, I'll hoist, pick up and clean.
I mean, dogs are family too.
