Our doberman, Titus, passed away last week. He was only 6. A few weeks ago he started coughing and tests revealed he had cardiomyopathy, which we knew meant he didn't have long. We tried several medications but it was like throwing a pillow in front of a car to get it to stop.
We've been through this before, the end days of a cherished pet, and we watched for the signs that it was time to help him along. But he never got there. Every day he seemed like he was still happy to be around, and that he could go another day or two. Even though he wouldn't eat his food, he did eat deli turkey, and we figured that was good enough for now. Good enough, considering. Every day we watched for a sign he was ready. It never came.
With our last dog, Comet, who died a year ago last February, we knew. He'd stopped eating and wouldn't get up. His looked at us with pleading eyes, reminding me of the day I whispered into his ear a promise to take care of him in the end. He'd trusted me all his life to do the right thing and he was going to hold me to it. My daughter came home from college and we took him to the vet, where they had an overstuffed bed waiting on the floor, and we gathered round him and sent him on his way. We were lucky to have that one, official goodbye.
With Titus--Ty for short--it went differently. The morning my daughter left for college she said her goodbyes. I knew it wasn't quite his time but I also knew he wouldn't make it to her next visit, and watching her pet him for the final time, not wanting each stroke to be her last, but having to finally break off and drive away, broke my heart. When we went puppy shopping those years ago, she was the one who hoisted him from the litter and declared he was the best. She is the one who has always claimed him as hers. And now she had to say goodbye first.
My goodbyes happened over a couple of days.One morning he visited me in the bathroom and I stroked and hugged him, and I asked him if he remembered when he was a puppy, and how we used to lock him in the kitchen, until he was potty trained, but sometimes he'd slip past the barrier and run around the house at full speed, and the kids would sing 'Freeeee-domm, freeeee-dommm," and we'd laugh and gather him up and bring him back to the kitchen. Or last year when we went on vacation and he barked at the kennel the whole time we were gone. When we came home he'd completely lost his voice, and when he tried to bark a pathetic little squeak came out which embarrassed him so much he wouldn't bark for a week.
The night before he passed, he stood my by chair while I was watching TV and I petted him for the longest. time. I found myself wondering if he was just feeling a little better or if he was trying to squeeze in one last visit. The next morning I heard him let out three wheezing gasps, and when I checked on him he was gone. My wife felt cheated out of her goodbyes, and my son maybe did too, though he never really said, but I feel that night Ty kind of knew and he gave me my chance. Or maybe he was asking me to help him. I'll never know.
