Death and Dying

Wednesday, January 14, my friend called and asked me to come right over. She was sobbing and rapidly losing control because her dog appeared to be in the final stages of life. He was diagnosed with liver cancer last May, but she’s been keeping regular vet appointments, changed him to a special diet, and has been pumping pills, blood tests and other treatments into him since the diagnosis. When I arrived, Grady was barely life-like: he was inside a scooped out hollow in the sand near the backdoor of his home, his eyes were cloudy, and he didn’t move. I had brought Mia over, perhaps to say her final farewell, and she stood over him, groomed the top of his head, and then bounded off to explore the backyard when Grady never acknowledged her presence.

Grady was shivering, so I suggested that his mom cover him with a blanket, keep him comfortable, and wait for the inevitable: there was no way Grady would live through the night.

The next day, I went with the two of them to the vet. Grady had to be carried into the building and he cowered at my feet. The vet came in and pronounced that the time had come to put Grady down: he has liver cancer and other issues, he’s old, and it’s the humane action to take. My friend was hysterical and could not wrap her brain around the death of her beloved dog, so I suggested that she take him home, spend the long MLK weekend saying goodbye, and then call the vet to come to her home for the final farewell.

Grady had to be carried into the vet’s office, but he walked out under his own steam! He visited the grassy area, lifted his leg, settled in for the ride home, and seemed to have undergone a miraculous improvement in his health. I assumed it was the result of the adrenalin from being at the vet’s office, as well as the shot he was given, based on the vet’s conversation about both. Over a very long weekend, Grady continued to improve and seemed like his old self. Of course, the fatal phone call to the vet’s office never took place because how does an owner put down a dog that appears to be … just fine?

When my friend had to return to work Tuesday, I offered to sit hospice care for a dying dog, which I did every day last week. It was completely stressful to think that any moment Grady could die, but he seemed fine. I mentioned several times that if Grady is sick and dying, I’m not seeing it. I suggested that maybe on the “day of the dead” he had eaten something at the park down the street where he had taken his early evening walk an hour prior to his vomiting, diarhhea and deathlike behavior. Repeatedly I was told that he has cancer and this is symptomatic of the “cycle” associated with it: some good days, some bad days, then he dies.

Over the weekend, we went out to eat and I talked to my friend about Grady’s incredibly improved health, again expressing the position that I think he ingested something at the park that worked its way out of his system and is no longer at death’s door. She didn’t agree, but did agree to call the vet. Yesterday, she came to pick Grady up after she returned home from work and told me that she had contacted the vet, who told her that he may NOT have liver cancer, but a liver condition, and that it sounds as if maybe he was poisoned or made deathly ill by something he ingested during the walk at the park on Jan. 14.

I was stunned. I had been in the vet’s office, heard the death knell, encouraged my friend to take Grady home so she could say goodbye, rather than having him put down that Thursday morning! What if she had said no, I want it done now. He’s suffered enough.

I’m angry at the vet and thinking about the thousands of dollars and the mental anguish this has been for Grady’s mom – and me. She is an emotional wreck during her good days, and this has almost pushed her over the top. The good news is that Grady seems fine, but the bad news is that she’s going to have to go through this again for reals: how is she going to know which time will be the time?

Grady is going to stay with me during the days and spend time with Mia, his best dog friend. I’m not comfortable with him staying at home alone, especially because there is no doggy door, but also because I don’t know which diagnosis is the correct one: Grady has liver cancer and is dying or Grady has a liver condition and we can tug on your heart strings, pile on the office visits, and cash the checks for the endless blood tests, the special diet, the medications, using the absolute terror of thinking that if you don’t go along to get along, Grady may die.