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I guess it’s been just a week since Chessie died, it already seems like longer than that. Though, it’ll be a while before I adjust to making only three bowls of food, counting only three heads when coming in from the field, and loading only three dogs in the van. I have a lot of his “personal affects”-for lack of a better term-left to put away or give away. Extra dog beds, bowls, gear specifically for him, like his big tracking harness. And, now might be a good time to re-configure my van, which has semi-permanently installed dog crates and competition gear, since that’s one less big crate that needs to be in there.

I am dealing with the loss better than I expected I would, I think I was preparing for a long time. But, that dog was still a huge part of my adult life, so I sure miss him all the same.

I went back through my photo album of competition photos, and through his competition record book. The first entries were in the summer of 1997, when he was four years old and I had been out of college one year. He earned his AKC “Pre-Trial Tested” herding title with three straight passes, and his “Companion Dog” obedience title with one failure and three back-to-back passes and two placements. I remember  that weekend: his first run out, there was a minute of terrible loudspeaker feedback noise, it panicked him-so typical of Chessie. The judge, Christopher Cornell, was so kind, and re-started our heel pattern to let us regroup, but Chessie could not get it together. I had many runs ruined due to Chessie’s fears of certain noises, and umbrellas. But, he also almost always scored well, and often placed.

My last competition notes are from less than three years ago, where we finished our UKC Agility Trial Champion. He was still very athletic and comfortable jumping at age twelve. His final roster of titles earned was impressive for just a dog pound rescue, he had a good show career. His full registered name ended up being:

U-ACH U-CDX Chases The Sun CDX PT MX AXJ

Left is one of my favorite photos of him and me together; we were waiting at the start line of an agility run in this picture. There was a delay, I had already tossed my leash aside, and I knelt down to make sure Chessie didn’t jump the line before the judge signaled his readiness. The photographer had a good eye for capturing moments of teamwork and closeness between dog and handler.

 So, I did it. I was tearful all morning at work. The night before, I’d concentrated hard on thinking of what he would want, of asking him. I’m no animal telepathic, but my sense was that he was ready, and that he wanted to stay home, to stay on the farm. By lunchtime, I realized I just wasn’t going to make it through the day at work, so I headed for home. I told myself that I wasn’t 100% committed to it yet, and part of my mind was already trying to un-knit the decision. But, another part of me knew it was time to walk straight into my own suffering, and not shy from it any longer.  

When I got home, Chessie was up and about, and vaguely glad to see me, but mostly because he wanted me to help him back inside. He promptly laid down on his blanket in the hall and fell sound asleep. It was good to see him resting well. He was breathing very slow, a little labored, and became fairly unresponsive. He didn’t acknowledge petting much at all. Maybe he was already getting ready, I felt like he knew and that he was relieved.  

I was hoping to convince the vet to come out and do the procedure, so I wouldn’t have to disturb him. But they didn’t want to. I was concerned that it would distress him hauling him in the van, and that we’d have a battle to find a vein at the vet’s office. I didn’t want it to end that way. We ended up finding a friend who could do it for us, she came in the evening. Chessie was still asleep, and didn’t even seem to notice the needle, so it was very peaceful, very gentle.  

Kirk kindly dug a hole in the pasture using the tractor and got everything ready. We wrapped him in some worn cotton blankets and put him in the ground, in the rain, just before dark.  

This kind of burial is consistent with beliefs I’ve been developing over many years, based on a lot of reading and thinking. I object to complicated burial procedures, painted coffins, chemicals and the like-it’s not good for the environment, not natural. Cremation is also polluting, and I believe that it has the affect of delaying the grieving process. You don’t see the body; it comes back to you days or weeks later in an urn, such that your mind does not connect well with the reality of the loss. The one time I had a rescue foster dog euthanized and taken away, I had strange, irrational thoughts for weeks, momentary ideas that I’d un-do it, go get her, change my mind. I think sending the body away prolongs the denial part of the grieving process.  

So, for me, this burial at home, in simple, natural cotton blankets, is right with nature, a last act of ritual and caring, and very final in the mind. And, so it is done, and I think it was right. My final realization was only this: that he had no good days, not even any good hours, left ahead. So, though the time and place were arbitrary, it seemed there was no point in delaying any longer. Now, we can all move on, we can all rest well once again. 

So long Chessie, it was a good fifteen years, and I’m glad you got to enjoy some life on the farm before you left. I will miss you.

I wrote this yesterday morning, partly as a way to think through my situation. But, I didn’t have the heart to post it then, it would have made it more “real” than I wanted at that moment.

Today I feel I am facing an excruciating decision. Chessie is doing worse and worse, and last night was miserable for us both. His decline is very slow, such that the increments are not noticeable. But, when I evaluate his overall quality of life now, and compare it to even just a few months ago: I see that there is virtually no quality left. Save eating, perhaps. He struggles to get up and lie down. Often he needs my help with both. The rest of the day, he shuffles around the yard (where he is left most of the day) in a daze.

He seems very senile, or otherwise mentally withdrawn. He barely acknowledges my presence, and no longer seems to take pleasure in being petted. He does not make eye contact, though I can tell he still sees. Sadly, I admit, much of my interaction with him is filled with frustration and impatience, over which I feel extremely guilty. I owe this dog compassionate care now, as he has been faithful to me all these years, and ever-tolerant of my mistakes and flaws. But, what I feel he deserves does not always show in my actions, when I’m struggling to help him get up and he is trying to bite me, or when he has just made a mess on the floor.

I searched the web a little bit for guidance on when it’s time to euthanize. This decision is so terribly weighty and fraught with ethical and spiritual complications! It is hard to think with a clear mind in times like this! Advice from others concludes: evaluate the animal’s quality of life, evaluate what’s stopping you from ending it, and use your best judgment on what seems “right.” And they always say “you’ll know when it’s time.” But I feel I  don’t know!

I don’t think I am selfishly hanging onto him for fear of losing him-in fact; honestly, I am ready for him to pass on. That is one natural aspect of age-related deterioration, is that the person, or animal that you once knew disappears. It gradually prepares you for the complete loss of having them in your life, because you’ve lost most of them before the actual death event occurs. This morning when I awoke from what little sleep we both got, I was praying to find him gone, it seemed like the time was so right after such a hard night. But, no, he awoke when I touched him.  

So, what’s stopping me from euthanasia? I think I am avoiding having to take the responsibility for it—I am wishing to be spared that burden by having him die a natural death. And yet, what remains is guilt that his passing may endure more suffering than is necessary, because I refuse to make this decision. So, I can’t win, no matter which path I choose, the emotional consequences for me seem the same. 

I have tried to evaluate what end-of-life suffering means from a spiritual or religious point of view. Of course, that is one of life’s greatest philosophical questions anyway. And most religions don’t give a lot of advice that pertains to animals, since ancient texts mostly address animals from the standpoint of eating them! The best we can do is presume that there is meaning in suffering, that it is part of the soul’s growth, or perhaps penance for past wrongs. It seems we must trust that suffering is necessary, and we must embrace it and accept it as part of our term here on earth. Dogs are generally very good at that. Possibly end-of-life suffering is also instrumental in readying someone for their own death, in helping them come to the conclusion that they want to pass on to leave their suffering behind.

So, I think that is why euthanasia is so very complicated—that as much as I dislike seeing another suffer, and would like to end that suffering—is it my right, or my duty, to do so? Am I interrupting some natural, meant-to-be process by declaring “I will not allow this suffering”? Am I short-circuiting his own spiritual preparation for leaving his earth by removing the choice from him, his body, or the divine?

But, it breaks my heart that he cried most of the night, I don’t know why, or what was bothering him. And that he’s having more and more nights like this. He just seemed like he could not get comfortable. And I left him in the dog yard this morning, crumpled against the fence where he semi-collapsed- still whining. I can’t guess what his day is like while I’m gone, if he rests, or if he suffers all day, if he finds shade and water, or if he just sits where he lands out of apathy. I don’t know what’s happening in his mind, if he knows where he is, if he knows what he wants, or what lies ahead, outside of the moment he’s in. I know he’ll be complaining when he sees me pull in at the end of the day, but no matter what I do to attempt to address his complaints, he rarely seems to settle and be satisfied.

So, it seems that the decision is before me, that I must take that next step and own this choice. Only I can do it. There is nothing left of the dog that once loved to run, chase, play, jump, learn and be with me. He is only a shadow now, which wanders through each day like a ghost, biding his time for that which neither he nor I can know. It seems the only thing to do is to be the escort that delivers him to that place as gracefully as possible now, hoping and praying it was the right thing for his gentle soul.

I had a vet/acupuncture appointment scheduled this evening anyway. Maybe it’s time. Maybe.