I found myself telling my friends that we
might have to put Our Buddy down soon. Funny, as long as it remained theory, my
words sounded empty, and they came out easily. But I’ve always wondered what animals
can (or can’t) comprehend, and I’ve wondered if My Buddy was somehow influenced
by my words; for she was never far away.
I saw a segment on
television a couple of years ago, and I’ve since written a devotion about it.
My brother used to be a taxidermist, and I asked him about the process.
You see, it’s
possible to permatize your pet. (Is permatize a word)? At any rate, the
TV segment involved something referred to as “freeze drying.” The deceased pet
is placed in some sort of vacuum chamber and every ounce of hydration is sucked
from its body. I understand the process takes about a month, and the animal
comes out looking very much as it did in life. It’s just a matter of posing the
creature, stuffing it in a tank and waiting. And oh yes,… the cost. It can
range upwards of a thousand dollars.
In my expansive
devotional volume, (Unconventional Devotions) I included a piece
entitled “Buddy, The Freeze Dried Dog.” At the time I was sure I wanted to go
that route.
I had notions of putting
My Little Buddy in my office, posed in an ancient Victorian chair, for all my
clients to admire and appreciate. Occasionally I would look at Our “Little
Popcicle” and say, “Buddy, do you want to be A Freeze Dried Dog?” And I kid you
not, almost every time, she would look at me in apparent disbelief, and turn
her rear end to me!
It was like, "Look here, Bub. That's very offensive to me. I'm still alive and well, and that kind of characterization is gross to the enth degree."
We had planned a
trip to Hilton Head South Carolina for quite some time. Since I’m retired
reserve I have the option of a military vacation club. We located a wonderful
condo with all the trimmings. Two bedrooms, two jacuzzi’s, two bathrooms, two
living rooms, two balconies, three televisions and a kitchen; easily 1500
square feet, and a beach across the street. Four days at $80 a day! (I realize
in the scheme of things these details are very unimportant, but this gives you
some understanding of how much potential fun awaited us there. And we did have
fun).
But I was faced
with a dilemma; leaving Buddy with Sue or “putting her down” before our trip.
While there wasn’t any critical deterioration of her function just then, I
sensed it was only a matter of time.
After much adieu,
the decision was made. (Or so I thought). My wife had previously volunteered
her sister or herself. (There was no way I could do the deed.) So Jean made the
call. She would take Our Little Buddy to the clinic the next day. Amazingly,
euthanization and cremation amounted to the required, (but unrealistic) sum of
$150.00. I suppose in the old days a farmer or rancher just walked out back,
took out a revolver, loaded it with one bullet and… (well, you know).
My wife planned to
go into the death chamber with Our Buddy. Incomprehensible to me. But she’s a
nurse and she’s seen many human beings die; having worked in hospital, nursing
home and hospice settings.
The arrangements were made, and there was
nothing left but the completion of the deed. I can’t tell you why, but second
thoughts permeated my mind, and before the night was over I’d decided against
immediate euthanasia. Perhaps a large factor was the conversation I had with a
sister-in-law in Alabama. She had called that night, and we discussed my plans.
Shirlene asked whether Buddy was in the throes of suffering, and I responded
that her breathing was a bit erratic, but I thought she could bear up for a
while. (I had even prayed that God would grace My Buddy with a few more years;
not unlike the prayer of Hezekiah).
We went on to
examine the quality of her life, and I realized how totally unprepared I was
for her death. I just couldn’t go through with my original plan; not with our
pending vacation. Perhaps it was a bit selfish, but emotionally the trip itself
would have been in jeopardy. We had to wait. We just had to.
Sue “babysat” for
us while we were gone. I gave her a list of written instructions. Food, eye
ointment for the blind eye, steroidal medication, three “wanna pee” breaks per
day, etc. We called and checked on Our Buddy every day. My sister-in-law told
Jean Our Shih Tzu was doing pretty well. There was the occasional respiratory
problems, but nothing extreme.
Eventually our
mini-trip ended, and we headed back home. We got home at about Three AM on a
Tuesday morning. Jean picked Buddy up a couple of hours later. (Sue is a
teacher and rises very early.) Though my wife might have expected Our Little
Friend to reject her momentarily, she was pleasantly surprised. Buddy greeted
her with mild affirmation, and willingly jumped into the car.
I’m glad we came
home early. Jean had expected to stay another day, but my schedule prevented
it, and I’d told her this before we left home. Tuesday was a promise. Tuesday
was a privilege. Tuesday was a procrastination. Since I’m convinced that Our
Little Buddy was waiting for us; patiently waiting for our return. Apparently
unready and unwilling to go “the way of all flesh” ‘til we came home to her.
She seemed a bit
sluggish, and took very little food that day. Jean coxed her to eat a bit of
chocolate. (We would give her very small amounts very occasionally. Fact or
legend has it that chocolate is deadly to canines. It was never an issue and
never phased her. She relished it). But that was all she
would accept on her last day. I pulled out the proverbial fork and venison, but
she turned her nose up at it. More precisely, her nose was buried in her furry
coat, and her respiration steadily increased throughout the day.
It was agonizing,
and I’m glad the time was shortened. Fast and shallow was her breathing, with
an occasional gasp or gag or retch. I have no exact term for it. But it was
pitiful to behold. And I patted her back during those episodes. I realize now
that her lungs were filling up with fluid, and that her respiratory system was
shutting down on her. How badly she wanted to live. No one could have
questioned this. But there seemed to be a quiet dignity about her, a royalty,
even in the throes of her agony. Perhaps her suffering caused her to welcome
The Inevitable.
For I think she
was coming to terms with her own passing. I think she considered it inevitable,
(as much as she could understand what was happening to her.) Yet we attempted
to make her comfortable in it all. (Tears roll down my cheeks as I allude to
these things).
The night was
excruciating for both Buddy and me. I could not comprehend putting her on the
floor, and lying down in my own comfortable bed. If there were ever a moment
for empathy, if there were ever a time to come along side, it was now.
I wonder if My
Little Buddy slept during the last scant few hours remaining to her. The
familiar sleep that she had so long valued may have eluded her that night. The
“long sleep” awaited her. Plenty of time for that.
I slept fitfully
that evening. I awoke several times. Once I placed My Little Buddy directly on
my bare chest. I had always done that, and this night was no exception. I
whispered her name and spoke calming words to her.
“Buddy, its okay to
go. You can go. You’ve lived such a good life. You’ve been such A Good Friend.
But it’s okay to go now.” And I like to think she understood. Actually, I’m
sure she did.
My Precious Buddy
was all over the bed that night; mainly by my head on another pillow. Her
breathing was labored; those short and swift breaths that had become so hard to
listen to. Then the retching that was even more excruciating. Once or twice I
shifted my head to the far side of my pillow. Her suffering was a bit too much
to bear.
It was excruciating
to see her deteriorate in front of me; all in one night. A couple of times she
tried to walk across the mattress. Her poor little legs buckled under her, but
this didn’t stop her from trying.
Occasionally I
would kiss her head, and tell her I loved her and that we couldn’t help but
meet again. Even in the throes of dying I think she hesitated to be any
trouble. She never begged to “go out,” that night, and she never “lost her
goodies;” (something Jean expected she’d do). During the wee hours I determined
to take My Buddy to the clinic the next morning. Her needless suffering would
soon be over.
The morning finally
dawned, and I feared to look at My Little Bud. When I finally did, I realized a
trip to the clinic would be unnecessary. For her tiny little tongue was absent
of any color. The pink had given way to a pasty white. It was all too apparent
that My Little Friend of over ten years was, even now, communing with her death
angel. (One angel to another).
Buddy was still
cognizant, and I encouraged her again. “It’s okay to go. I want you to stay,
but I know you have to go.” And I lifted her gently in my arms and walked
towards the living room.
Bending down I
placed My Dear Little Buddy on her favorite doggie cushion, and walked into the
dining room to make a phone call. I just couldn’t do my session work that
morning. It was impossible to consider. I told my client that My Precious Pet
was dying at that very moment. Of course, he was very understanding. Odd, I
hadn’t considered it ‘til just now. My client’s name was Angel; that word,
again. Buddy’s middle name.
But when I walked back into the living room, My Buddy seemed a bit too still. A bit too peaceful. And indeed, she was at peace. I sat down beside her and watched her belly for any sign of respiration. And I was stuck with how little emotion I felt then. My only regret was the dull realization that I hadn't been with her at the moment of her passing. I'd been on the phone for all of a minute. Maybe two. While I had been speaking to a human named "Angel," My Own Little Angel had been communing with a real one! His words had been too alluring for My Buddy to resist.
But perhaps the
timing of My Little Buddy’s Transition amounts to poetic justice. Perhaps
royalty are destined to die in silence, solace and sanctity.
After all, My
Little Palace Dog never wanted to be the object of close scrutiny. She always
lingered just out of arm’s reach. It was just her way.
And so I think she
chose to wait for our return, and I think she chose the place. (What
better place than her doggie pillow; that spot where she spent the majority of
her “waking moments?”) And as I’ve alluded, I think she chose the moment
of her departure.
She died on Wednesday, March 1st at 750AM. She
passed away at home.
It was difficult
for me to give her up for dead. I watched for the ever so longest time. She
never breathed. She never moved. And what still seems odd to me, rigor mortis
stiffened her jaw almost immediately.
(My wife and I
were in a church service several years ago, and a visiting evangelist made some
comment about death, and the resulting condition of the human anatomy. He
mispronounced the word which characterizes the stiffening of a body…
Rigamatortoise! I thought we’d die!
We laugh every time we think about it).
After a while, I
chanced on an idea. Or perhaps it was always resident within me, and well
thought-out in advance. At any rate, I looked for a pair of scissors, and
finding them I kneeled down next to My Aged Puppy. I cut a lock of fur from her
side; just beneath her right ear. As I write, that little tuff of fur rests in
my desk drawer. In a little tin. She was Our Little Lady.
It was time to wake
my wife and make her aware Our Buddy had left us.
I went to the back
of the house and attempted to wake her easily. It never has been (easy.) Jean
tends to wake with a start, and her most comatose phrase when waking is “What.
What is it?” And this time was no different.
I didn’t have to
think very long about My Tiny Tot’s final arrangements. You see, some friends
of mine had taken pity on me a few days before, and had bought me a whole new
wardrobe. (I kid you not). And still lying on the floor, nearby, was a large
shoebox. Its presence there was almost prophetic.
I gently placed Our
Dear Little Buddy into the shoebox, and posed her in her most familiar
position. Curled into a proverbial ball; her paws bent under her, her head
tucked into her furry little chest.
Jean and I admired
her residual beauty, as Our Buddy was experiencing those first few moments of
her “long sleep.” The sleep she so often sought out in life, she continued in
death. I had often made the remark, (and perhaps she got tired of it,) “Buddy,
wake up. There’ll be plenty of time for sleeping when you’re dead.” (I
expect she slept a full 75% of her life). Familiar, and a pastime she will
continue to relish.
In a recent
devotional, from my volume titled Musings, I described the passing of
and subsequent arrangements for My Little Bud. I can’t do any better, here,
than to refer to those musings.
“I sat next to My
Little Buddy for what seemed long minutes; stroking her coat, choking back
sobs, whispering my final words to My Precious Little Friend.”
(I was in no
particular hurry to put the lid on her tiny casket; since it would be the
surest measure of finality; except for that dark and lonely hole in the
ground).
“We chose a spot
for Our Little Friend in the back yard; under an old oak tree. It took a bit of
doing to find just the right place. The ground was hard and I had to chop up
some roots. The hole was shallower than I might have wished. But Our Little
Buddy would have loved the spot; since she loved sunlight, and sunlight graces
this place throughout the day. As I lifted the little shoebox, to place her in
the ground, I felt a warmth exuding from the bottom of it. The last vestiges of
her mortal life seemed to leave an afterglow, and somehow reassured me. I
marked her grave with a large stone, and the inscription; ‘My Little Buddy.’”
Funny, it hardly
occurred to me to preach a sermon or say a prayer. But as I tossed the last
shovel of dirt into the hole, I remember saying,
“You were such A Good Buddy to
me.”
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "My Little Buddy" (and) "Snapshots From a Life (Not Always So) Well-lived" Vol. 5
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