How to Explain Death to a Dog

To my knowledge, dogs don't have a concept of life or death. At least with the Greyhounds that we've adopted and fostered, I would find it hard to believe that they could intellectualize the notion of their life being something that exists and will end.

I guess I would explain it to them like, "You know how it's fun to cuddle and to be told how good you are and to get treats? How it feels when the air passes you as you sprint? That's being alive. So is the times you're lonely and bored, sore or worried, or being scolded for climbing on the counter to eat all the bread. When life stops, all that will stop, and I don't really know what to tell you will come next. I think it will get very quiet and still, though. I hope there is more bread. I love you. Good luck."

We had to put our sweet boy, Abel, down this week. In truth, he didn't much like running unless there was a cat to harrass or a treat arcing through the air and landing on our faux grass in the backyard.

About 9 months ago, he was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. He's been an anxious little monkey since we got him in 2020 but this was a whole new level of fret. And because it's made of hormone-producing cells, symptoms ran the gammet; little interest in food, exhausted, frantic, peeing in the house every time we left (diapers helped a little). The workup alone was thousands of dollars and just setting toe into the vet's office gave him anxiety fits, so a few months ago we decided not to do radiation therapy or surgery. We were told they likely wouldn't work or would only buy us limited additional time with him. For a while, we limped by trying to keep the hormone surges at bay, but the last few weeks, it became more clear that the tumor was winning and he was miserable; panting, losing control of his bowels, etc.

But he was so nice. And silly. He didn't complain much, he still seemed to want love and treats and walks and...life.

It's a decision that always feels both horrible and lucky. I wish he could have told us he was ready. I wish we could have afforded to try more treatments...I think? I still don't know, with unlimited funds, if that would have been the right call. But there's always the what-ifs of the matter. Ultimately, our wise 11 y/o said it best: "I hate that this is happening, I don't want it, but since it is, the best next thing we can do is help him not suffer." So we did that.

And we did it at home. A vet came with a service that does this all the time. They were so gentle and professional, educating along the way, keeping the decisions in our hands, at our pace. So Abel literally died in my hands, surrounded by Robb and the kids. It was beautiful and it was sad. But it couldn't have been more peaceful. And I think that's the best you can get out of a death. Was it a good death? It was. Is death ever good? I mean, fuck, not for those who love you, no. But for him? Yes, it was a good death.

Working in hospitals for the past twenty years, I've often been grateful when families and those whose lives are ending make the decision to let death happen as peacefully as it can. Palliative care and hospice isn't giving up- it's choosing the end you want when the end is going to happen one way or the other. And it's tough to know when that is- it's hard. But I always admire those who can determine it and curate a gentle death. If you haven't yet watched this show, it has the most beautiful end-of-life sequence I've ever witnessed (plus a little BDSM and lots of laughs).

Anyway, sometimes I think we're nicer to our pets.

So, for anyone who's loved and lost (and been able to afford having) a pet, I know you feel me here. The ache is real. I'm sitting in a restaurant writing this because I couldn't stand the idea of going home to an empty house (the guinea pig and fish don't greet me at the door).

Here's to my sweet, sweet, soft boy, who was silly and loving and always near. I miss him terribly and now I don't know how to answer when the kids ask me who my favorite child is. It was always Abel.