I have been very sad these past weeks. My mom is 91 years old and she has a best friend in her little Sheltie-mix, Penny, who is about 14 years old now. Penny loves my mom and follows her wherever she goes. It has been especially so since my dad passed away in 2009.
It has become apparent that Penny is not comfortable now and it's hard for her to get up and down the steps going outside. It is equally hard for my mom to help her. Penny has lost her hearing and is also now incontinent, and she has tumors all around her body. But she still loves to play with her "baby" - the little pink pig that squeaks when she takes it in her mouth. That squeak may be the only sound she can hear.
My mom has made the difficult decision to end Penny's suffering and the appointment has been made with her veterinarian for next Saturday, October 8th. I am not looking forward to it. I love this dog almost as much as my mom does. It's never easy to euthanize our pets. They are as much a part of our family as our relatives are, and although we try to convince ourselves that it's the best thing for the animal, we still feel that we are doing a terrible thing. My mom has come to terms with her decision and is starting to plan projects for herself during the coming weeks, and there will be no shortage of family members keeping her busy with places to go and things to do. And I have decided to stay with her for a while to make sure she's ok. When all is said and done I'm sure it will be my mom comforting me, because I'm just your typical basket case.
I have put 3 of my pets to sleep in the past 15 years and in every situation I have felt guilty. It's my fault that my beloved companion is sick. What could I have done to prevent this? Why hadn't I seen the signs earlier? I could have fixed it somehow—as if there is a miracle drug that would prevent the animal from becoming old. The fact of the matter is that there is no miracle fix. Our pets get old faster than we do, and sometimes they even get sick and die before their time, and the only way to prevent this feeling of sorrow and guilt over their loss is to not have a pet at all, saving ourselves the agony—and it is agony. We feel empty inside and we cry like babies. But if we love animals we will go through this process over and over again, because it is the unconditional love we receive from them that brightens each day and outweighs the eventual sorrow.
When we put our beloved dog Benji to sleep in 1996, I was so beside myself that I actually went to our Rectory to talk to a priest at my church. His words were comforting but the guilt did not go away. I went to my doctor next to see if he would give me a prescription for valium. He did not, saying that I had to mourn. He was kind and suggested I seek help from a professional. Finally I made an appointment to see a grievance counselor at the Bide-a-Wee shelter where I lived on Long Island. The counselor was wonderful. We talked for quite a while and she helped me put my feelings into perspective. I realize now that at times like this it’s not so much what people say to you in their attempt to make you feel better, it’s what you say to anyone who will listen in your attempt to ease the pain. Upon leaving the counselor gave me some literature. I left her office, got in my car, took a deep breath and opened the pamphlet. Within there was a poem by Elizabeth Frye. I would recite this poem often during the next few weeks. I know it by heart now and share it with anyone who has lost a loved one.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
