The first time I ever cried in front of Digger, long long ago, he sat by me and licked my hand. He didn’t want me to be sad then and he wouldn’t want me to be now, so this is the last sad thing I’ll ever write about him. Next time will only be about the happiness such a fine dog gave his humans. I want to get this last part of his story written down because it makes me feel better and because I hope what we went through helps other dogs and their owners some day.
I sat on the ground outside with him all yesterday morning. It was a gorgeous warm day and he wanted to loll in the sun and leaves. I combed his fur because he loved that above all else, fed him his favorite treats, told him about how awesome he was. He was dopey from the pain meds but still seemed clear-headed, and I think the drugs had finally taken the edge off his pain. Which ironically made it even more obvious that he was ready to go, because I could see that it wasn’t just pain that was hurting him, but also weakness. He just didn’t have any muscle left. He was tired.
At 11 a.m., John called me and asked that instead of meeting us at the park for a last walk, could I bring Digger over to his place so he could spend an hour or so alone with him? Of course I could, and I did. I got dressed and told Rupert it was time to say goodbye to Digger. By this point, I was sobbing uncontrollably and didn’t want to upset Digger, so Rupert put his leash on him for the last time. I just couldn’t do it. I walked Sunny out to the car and Rupert brought Digger, who was, as I feared, very excited and happy about a car trip. And for the first time in months, he actually trotted towards the car and tried to jump himself in. All he needed from us was a little boost on his butt.
I drove to John’s house in tears, and John and his girlfriend (we’ll call her Muriel) met me at the gate with tears. Digger was so happy to see them, and he had a little spurt of energy, trotting around their backyard and peeing in all his old favorite spots. I gave Muriel some old pictures of Digger from his youth because I’d taken them all when John and I split up. She hugged me and told me it would be all right, and I left with Sunny to go to the park for an hour while John said goodbye to Digger.
By the time we got back, John had come to terms with things. He was finally ready. He said as soon as Digger’s energy burst wore off (after about five minutes), he was spent and just wanted to lay down. We both cried some more and took pictures of each other with Digger one last time. We loaded the dogs into my car and John followed me to the vet clinic.
He waited outside with Digger, letting him sniff and pee all over the cornucopia of doggie smells around the place, while Sunny and I went inside to pay for the euthanasia and wait for the technician. I waved John and Digger in when it was time, and we all went into an exam room, where the same vet I’d seen Thursday was waiting. She told us she knew we were grieving but that we were doing the right thing, and she explained what was going to happen. Sunny, meanwhile, crammed herself between me and the wall, terrified that she was about to have something put in her bottom. If only, sweetie. I wish that was what we were there for.
They took Digger to the back area to put a catheter in his arm and then brought him back. He wasn’t scared or upset at all, just excited about all the attention and smells. The vet left us alone for a few more minutes so we could say goodbye to Digger while he was still aware, and we did. He’d laid down on the floor as soon as they brought him back to us, and we both sat on the floor with him, kissing him and saying goodbye, thanking him for being such a fine, wonderful dog to us. The vet came back in and injected the sedative, said he’d start zoning out, and asked us to let her know when we were ready. We spent another few minutes on the floor, crying and loving him as his eyes got glassy and he sort of just stared at the wall. We talked about all the great times we’d had with him, camping and going to lakes and throwing his Frisbees. About how he tried to murder the cable guy that one time for having the audacity to enter our backyard. About how he taught Sunny how to be a good dog and did his very best with that despite the material he’d been given to work with. About how sweet and affectionate he was, and tough and brave at the same time.
His panting slowed down and he started to relax for the first time in a long, long time. The vet poked her head in and we told her it was okay, we were ready. She and the technician sat on the floor with us in a circle around Digger, and she pulled the syringe out of her pocket and told us that as soon as she started injecting it, it would happen fast. It was a huge syringe full of green liquid.
She slowly pushed the stuff into his catheter, and almost immediately his head started falling. He had been laying in the sideways-sphinx pose, and his head just started going down towards the floor. The technician caught him and helped his head go down gently. I sobbed like a baby and Sunny whimpered; John choked on his tears and held tight onto Digger’s torso, rubbing him and chanting it’s okay bubba, it’s okay bubba. Bubba was our nickname for him.
There’s no way to put into words how horrible it was to see the life go out of him. I had no idea it would be so awful and how hard it would hit me when it was actually happening. He was motionless before the vet finished the injection. I sobbed, is he breathing? The vet put a stethoscope to his chest and said there was no heartbeat. It was over so fast and it felt like getting hit by a train. One minute he’s looking at me with his little smile and the next minute he’s just gone. The vet had tears in her eyes and scooted over to me on the floor and hugged me. She told us to take as much time as we wanted, and then left us alone with poor Digger one last time.
If you’ve been through this, you know. It sucks. There’s no way around it, it just hurts real bad.
I kissed his head and nuzzled his face with mine and prayed that dogs really do have souls so I’ll get to see him again someday, when I die. We finally got control of ourselves and the vet came back in, asked if she could do anything else, and walked us out. She was really sweet and I’m going to send her a thank-you note. The very hardest part of this entire thing was when we left the room. Digger was laying on the floor, all alone. John had to actually pull on my arm a little to get me to walk away because I just couldn’t bear leaving him there, dead and alone. I know that makes no sense at all; he was dead. But I felt like I was abandoning him. I felt like I’d brought him there, killed him, and was just leaving him.
We went out to our cars and I already felt the huge void. Half of my dogs were gone. I always felt like Sunny and Digger were one unit, one big awesome dog, and it suddenly felt like I had only half a dog. I hope that doesn’t sound mean to Sunny – but I think she actually feels the same way. John and I hugged and thanked each other for everything we’d done for Digger in his almost-13 years. John had told me so many times in the last few days how much he appreciated me taking care of Digger these last many months, and honestly, all I have to say to that is it was my pleasure. Frankly, I’m grateful to John for letting me take Digger when we split up; it truly felt like a gift to me. He was a good dog.
John was holding Digger’s leash and collar and he held them up, and we both just stared at them dumbly. He unhooked them from each other and handed me the leash. He kept the collar. We said goodbye, and Sunny and I went for a car ride…to Taco Bell. Rupert had told me before I left that morning that despite his intense opposition to most instances of Taco Bell consumption, I should have it that day because it would make me feel better. So I ordered my grub through tears, and we came home, and the house felt so empty without my old bubba. His prescription bottles and big bucket of Glycoflex were sitting on the dining room table and when I saw them, a fresh burst of sobbing. I looked at his orthopedic bed on the living room floor and sobbed some more. I looked at the door to the backyard and remembered all the times I’d opened it to let Digger in or out – he never could make up his mind – and sobbed some more. I tried to eat my Taco Bell but didn’t have much success because all I could think about was how Digger would always watch me eat it with this look on his face like, woman! That’s nasty.
The rest of the day, I was a big mess. Rupert hugged me and told me to let it out and just cry as much as I damn well pleased. He is so great, I can’t even tell you how great. Best. Boyfriend. Ever. I sat on Digger’s bed and told Rupert how it went at the clinic, how Digger’s head sank down and he was gone so fast, and how I felt like I’d done something horrible and how bad I wanted to go back there and lay on the floor with him. Rupert got choked up, and he just kept telling me it was okay to cry and be a big ol’ mess, and that all of Digger’s pain was forever over, but it was okay to be so sad and I shouldn’t fight it. You can’t suffer the loss of a loved one without feeling like hell, he said, and his acceptance of my sorrow was a beautiful thing. I can’t imagine a better way for him to get me through all of this. God, I love him.
Sunny seems mostly okay. She was so nervous at the vet clinic that she wasn’t paying much attention to Digger, but before we left, I tugged her towards him and she gave him a sniff. She didn’t seem to register that anything was different about him – he probably smelled the same because he’d only been dead for a few minutes. But I’m glad I gave her the chance. She was definitely quieter than usual the rest of the day and night, though.
This morning, I heard her in the hallway whimpering a little bit. I took her to the park and as soon as she got out of the car, she gave a little whine and cry and sniffed around, looking. I think she was trying to find Digger because that was one of the last places she’d been before he disappeared. But then she seemed better, no more whimpering, but definitely subdued, which she still is this afternoon. She’ll be all right, I know. I’ve been so focused on Digger these last few months and now all of that time, energy, and affection will go to her alone. My parents are going out of town for Thanksgiving so I get to dogsit their mutt, Maggie. That’ll be good for Sunny, too. There will be much romping, running, and humping, indeed.
I have to say some stuff about the decision I made in the hopes it’ll help someone and their own old dog some day. As I struggled to come to terms with everything yesterday, I realized something I did not want to realize: I waited too long. I sat on Digger’s bed crying and feeling like I’d “gotten rid” of him, like I’d done something I shouldn’t have done, and all of a sudden, visions of Digger in the last few months started pouring through my brain. I could see him struggling to get up and down, being scared to be alone, following me around the house nervously, walking so slowly and awkwardly at the park and on walks. I remembered how his body looked when he slept, tense and with those back legs pulled up so tight because his hips hurt. The fact that he could still poop, pee, eat, walk, and enjoy affection had convinced me he wasn’t ready, but now as I think back about it all, I can see that his pain was worse than I had admitted to myself. He hurt all the time and I didn’t put myself in his shoes soon enough.
Now that it’s done, I regret very much that I didn’t do it sooner. He wasn’t crippled or incontinent or sick, and that made it easier to deny that it was time for him to have some peace. Please, if you have an old hurting dog, think about this sooner than I did. I know I took good care of him, I gave medications to help him, I made sure he was as comfortable as possible, but damn. I think his last few months of life weren’t worth it to him. I’m not going to beat myself up about it, but I sincerely believe that if I had read all of this on another blog a few months ago, I would have faced facts then and would have stopped tricking myself into thinking he was better than he really was.
One last thing. When we were at the clinic and the vet and the tech wanted to take him in back to put the catheter in, they and John were all trying to get him to stand up and go by verbally encouraging him. Come on Digger, let’s go, come on boy. The tech had his leash and was gently tugging it to tell him she wanted him to go. He wouldn’t budge because he wasn’t convinced he was actually going anywhere; he just thought they wanted him to stand up. Also, he was deaf. Anyway, all three of them were hovering around him, coaxing him and trying to get him to do it, and do you know what he did? He just stared at me. I was on the other side of the room and he was looking at me, wanting to know what he was supposed to do. I realized at that moment that I had become his focus in life, I was the one whose bidding he would do, because I was the one that made all good things happen. I was the source of excursions and treats and massages and love, and he had bonded to me in these last several months in a way I hadn’t even realized. He’d always been “John’s dog” and had always lived outside until I moved out after the divorce and the dogs started living inside, in my new house. He and I spent 24 hours a day breathing the same air, you know? And it mattered to him. He really loved me and he looked to me when he was confused, like at the clinic yesterday. When I realized that, it gave me a lot of comfort and joy. So I told them yesterday, he can’t hear you, if you open the door and look at him invitingly, he’ll get up. They did that and he got up. He needed me to show them what to do, and I was so happy that I could.
I miss him terribly. I miss him following me around the house, I miss taking him on slow walks, I miss watching him pee on mailboxes, I miss his silly panting when he got playful, I miss combing his crazy-thick fur, I miss giving him his pills mashed up in peanut butter that he’d lick gently off my fingers, I miss seeing him sleeping on his bed in the living room, I miss the way his little nub tail would jerk back and forth when he saw me, I miss the way he’d still try to hump Sunny even as a geriatric, I miss his stinky breath, I miss picking up his stinky poop, I miss how he’d bark like a puppy at a treat in my hand until I gave it to him. I miss every single thing about him except his pain.
But if he has to be gone in order for that pain to be gone, I accept that and I’m glad he’s finally free. It really is okay. The love of a pet is worth every bit of the agony you feel when they have to die. So no more crying! Now is the time to remember the good stuff. Like the way he destroyed this rubber ball in approximately 2.3 minutes back in the year 2000. I was lucky to get one picture of him with it because he wasted no time teaching that ball all about the laws of physics, which dictate that rubber balls are no match for the jaws of a canine.
Bye, sweet boy. Love you.
Okay.
I’m gonna go cry in the shower now. And then I’m going to make my nine-year-old cat wonder why I’m disturbing his nap.
God bless Digger and Sunny and Sadie and all the good dogs in the world. And God bless Rachel for loving Digger so much and taking such good care of him.
I know all of our hearts and tears are with you and John, Rachel.
Thinking of Digger today, I took Pepper Dog to a big park where she could run free, chase squirrels, spar with some big Lab pup and generally Slack. The condo doesn’t afford much of that.
I laid my coat out on the grass and sprawled out in the sun and let Pepper just be silly. I combed her and scratched her and just enjoyed the hell out of taking the time to just be.
Thanks.
Thank you for bringing us on this journey with you, Rachel.
Bless you and Sunny.
My thoughts are with you all.
I’m crying like a baby right now…*hugs* Rachel, John, Rupert, and Sunny. I hope when my girl goes, that we can provide her with as much love as you’ve given Digger.
I suspect I’m not the only one who kept obsessively refreshing the web page since yesterday afternoon.
After Leo died, I was a mess. The next day, I called in sick at work and just spent the whole day sitting on the couch crying. I didn’t even feel like eating much.
If you’re gonna make me cry like a girly-guy all the time, I’m gonna have to move on. Not! Thank you so much for including all of us on this journey of yours. The past few days reading here have put me back in touch with a part of me that I thought I had lost.
I think my dogs (5) are a little confused, because I’ve been showing them pictures of Digger and telling them what you’ve written about him; here and in the past.
I really feel as though I have lost a friend; and I hope that Digger meets up with my old Semtex (and my others that preceeded him) and they can run together in those beautiful endless fields.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: if there aren’t dogs in Heaven, I’m not goin’. Because it ain’t Heaven.
Thank you, again; and give Sunny a treat for me.
Heartbreaking.
I cannot begin to tell you, after reading all this [beautifully written, I might add], how very, very sorry I am.
“If you’ve been through this, you know. It sucks. There’s no way around it, it just hurts real bad.”
No question — been there a number of times, and for those reasons, I am not sure I would ever be able to do it again.
I wish for you a lifetime of happy memories with Sunny, also a good dog.
Absolutely beautiful, Rachel.
It does suck. Royally.
Hugs and prayers for all of you. You WILL see him again. That much love and soul can never die. I hope when he get to heaven that he looks up my Weimaraner, she’ll show him a good time and where all the best pee spots are.
(((HUGS)))
Prayers are with you hon. God bless you.
I’m so glad for you that it’s over. It hurts, it sucks, it takes a long time to get over, but at least it’s behind you, not in front of you, and now Digger is at peace. And those are all good things.
Please don’t say it’s the last time you’ll write sad things about him though. It might take more time and all of us here want you to have the freedom to write whatever is needed. All the people commenting who say they cried thinking back on pets they said goodbye to months and years ago show that it’s always a sadness in the background that can re-emerge. So please feel free to write and express yourself on this journey as needed.
That being said, I’m so proud of you for doing the hard thing. It is sad and awful but it is right and strong and you did it. And it speaks volumes of your character that you and John walked it through together. (And Rupert is awesome, but you know that already!)
You’re going to be ok, absolutely. It just takes time, and it’s not a straight-line path. Some days are better, other times it just sneaks up and hits you again as if it just happened.
Be good to yourself. You’ve done the right thing. You will heal. That’s a promise.
God hold Digger in the palm of His Mighty Hand.
I’m with you. There is no heaven without dogs.
A dear friend once asked me: “Why do dog’s lives have to be so short?”
It’s to make their lives precious to us.
My thoughts are with you. I’ve been in your shoes before and while the pain does ease, I don’t think it ever goes away. Keep your chin up and remember that Digger is looking down at you while surrounded by all his new friends. (((HUGS)))
Interesting.
I just now got an e-mail from my cousin. She’s more religious than I am, and is always sending me inspirational messages. That’s good. I appreciate them, and the thought behind them.
Here’s the one I just got:
If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it.
Oh Rachel. No words.
No words.
Right now I’m proof that you can still cry at age 56. Thank goodness I’m alone at work and it’s Sunday. Anyone who has been through what you just experienced cannot help but be touched by what you wrote.
I don’t remember who said it, and my efforts to find out have drawn a blank, but a wise man once observed that the only really bad thing about the love our pets give us is that we outlive them …. or, worse, sometimes they outlive us.
My condolences, Rachel
That was so beautifully written. I’m sobbing here. Continuing to keep you all in my thoughts and prayers. You are loved.
He was a good dog, and you’ve brought him into many of our lives, too. One of the few curses of long life is that we outlive so many of our nonhuman friends — but it is worth it for the joy they bring while they live. He will be remembered fondly by all of us.
You did the right thing. I’m sorry it hurts so much.
Rachel,
If it helps, one of the things that helped me cope with my dad’s death was to concentrate on the memories of him that made me feel good, rather than the ones that made me feel sad. Rather than thinking about all the things he won’t be around for (my wedding, my first house, my first kid, etc.), I just kept thinking about all the memories of him that made me smile. Like the time we went fishing and a catfish jumped right out of the water and into his lap. Or the time we went snow-mobiling in Michigan.
So, I propose that everyone share some happy dog memories. Those funny stories that always make you laugh, even when you’re alone and there’s no one to laugh with you. I know we all have them. I think it’ll be good for Rachel and good for us if we share them.
:( Sorry, Rachel.
Four-Feet, by Rudyard Kipling.
Rachel,
I you have my sincere sympathy – I’ve had to end the lives of two dogs. It Sucks.
Happy Memories Time. We had squirrels that would taunt the dogs. Two occasions stand out.
Alvin (because that’s a name you can yell) would chase them up a tree and bellow all manner of threats and insults. One time he kept running when he hit the tree, and he was a good five feet off the ground when gravity caught up and he ran out of traction. The squirrels climbed a little higher after that.
Beckle was chasing one away from the tree and about to corner it. I wondered how the squirrel would escape and how much it would hurt her if she actually grabbed it. That squirrel reversed direction and ran underneath her belly, between both sets of legs, and ran up the nearest tree. Beckle did a somersault trying to follow that miserable tree rat and ended up on her belly with her legs splayed out like Bambi on ice. She looked at me with “I meant to do that” all over her face.
You just made a grown man sob during a hockey game – not easy.
I’ve lurked here for a long time, but never commented and would like to thank you for sharing your experiences with Digger – I’ve enjoyed every bit.
You did the right thing, and while it feels horrible and empty, it was the most loving thing you could do for him.
God bless you and yours, may He temper your pain.
It’s tough dear. All the good memories will flood you for days and days. Digger still lives with you and John. And those memories.
You’re right, rickl. I’ve been checking in obsessively for days.
Rachel, it was so hard reading this post because it’s all so familiar — and please don’t beat yourself up about any of it. You did the best you could, better than a lot of people do for their animals. When it counted, you were there for Digger in exactly the way he needed you to be.
Grief is odd — and as Amy said, it’s not a straight-line path. Sometimes you will think of Digger and cry, and in the next moment you’ll think of him and laugh. Eventually the happy memories outweigh the sad ones.
Digger doesn’t remember the pain. He remembers your love. He’s at peace, he’s pain-free, he’s happy and healthy and tearing the crap out of someone’s styrofoam floaties somewhere. He remembers you and Sunny and Rupert and John, and he will be waiting for you when you arrive.
I’m also one of those people who hates the online huggy thing, but if this doesn’t call for an online hug, nothing does. Especially since it’s unlikely that you and I will ever meet in RL
{{{Rachel}}}
{{{Sunny}}}
I’d hug Rupert but you might swat me. And I don’t know John well enough…. ;)
God bless all of you.
I am so sorry, Rachel.
Rachel….again, so sorry for your loss. My deepest condolences to you and John and all others who were touched by Digger in their lives.
Your guy is right….just cry, be a big old mess…every person here gets it. I’d also like to say that I know this is a blog where you write things but it is very special of you to share ALL of this with so many….and it will help someone in the future. In fact, Rachel, I think it has helped every last one of us who has ever lost a pet whether it be 10 years ago or a month ago.
Anyway…hold on to those memories and hold on to the knowledge that you gave him a wonderful life. And, I give you another hug from afar.
What a magnificent beast! And, yes, I mean both of you.
Again, hugs and hugs to all of you. Digger is probably happily demonstrating the laws of physics on rubber balls in the beyond. With that same huge goofy grin on his precious face.
Who’s a good boy? Digger is, that’s who!
Nothing I can say will help, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and thanks for telling such great stories about him (and Sunny). I’ve been through this a bunch of times with pets over the years and you summed it up perfectly; it sucks, and that’s that.
All I can say is I’m sorry and give Sunny an extra hug.
Always thought that a dog gracefully navigating the water to be a thing of beauty. May you find solace from the comfort of strangers who share your pain.
Thanks for letting us in on this difficult time. Digger will always be with you.
Peace be with you and yours. My old dog decided to disappear the same week we made the tough decision you just made. Just wandered off (we lived in the mountains). I never saw him again; never got the closure, the sense of having done right by him.
Savor the closure, the memories, and the love. And be at peace.
What you did (and were able to do) for Digger was amazing and wonderful. You relieved his suffering. If dogs have souls, his is grateful; you can be sure of that.
I had to read this, but sat here with tears running down my face as I did.
I took my dogs on walkies today, out in the warmth, gave them extra dog treats and extra hugs. Thank you Rachel for your willingness to share this story.
Bless you and be well.
You are an inspirational person.
I’m sorry, Rachel. Take care and try do what you can; pull out the old pictures, dust off the happy memories, laugh once again at the antics, spoil Sunny rotten for a few days, and life will take its course. We went through hundreds of pictures and thousands of online netcam shots that were archived and found some classics!
We also took a few of the best and fed them to the DYI poster generator and printed them out to put up around home and office… Bonnie the Motivator is quite popular at work now! And the happy smiles, triumphant plume-tail, elegant coat, all faded or gone near the end of her life once again show proudly and strong, and when I think of her now its the strong young rocket dog that leaps to mind; it takes an effort to recall her fading days.
I look forward to many tales of Digger the Magnificent and Sunny the Upstart Sidekick!
I’m so sorry for your loss, Rachel.
Rachel, I wish I could give you, John, Rupert, Sunny and anyone else a great big hug. I’ve been through this with several animals and it’s never easy. Just know that you did the right thing for Digger. They say in Heaven we will be reunited with our loved ones. I can’t imagine they don’t mean our pets, too, so someday you will see him again.
What had to be done sucks. But don’t ever forget you gave Digger a better life than he would have had. Too many people get animals, then go through the motions. Instead of paying attention to them, they bitch and moan, and act like they’re annoyed by the animals. He had a good life. And you made sure the end was an easy one.
The hell of it is, that’s part of why it’s so damn hard. You cared. No matter how bad things got, you guys still cared. You’re heads and shoulders above a lot of people.
You did the right thing, and you did good. So now is the time to do what you have to for yourself.
take care
You done good.
I am so sorry for your loss, Rachel. A truly heartbreaking story.
May all your memories of Digger be good ones.
Doing the right thing sometimes is very very difficult. You stuck it out and what you did was admirable.
It will get easier with time.
I’m so sorry. Your words brought my own experience of holding my dog and watching her go. How fast they go, and how their soul goes. They bolt, like they know what’s waiting for them and they’re eager to get there.
You did just fine. The worst is over now; now you can mourn, and heal.
This is my first post on your blog Rachel. I’ve been reading it the past 8 months. I’ve meant to take the time to comment but never have.
I really should have made a comment in the blog about your love of dog paws. (I thought I was the only one with a fascination about the adorableness of dog paws.)
Now, I have to take the time. I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of one of your best friends. I don’t know what to say other than that. I’ll give my dog an extra hug when I get home. Sunny must be bummed.
He sounded like a great dog and you obviously gave him a wonderful life.
It’s something like this that scares the shit out of me because, I know I’ll be a complete wreck when Max (my dog) dies. I’m afarid I won’t make the right decision if he gets to the point where he should be put to sleep.
He’s almost 11 so, I know that day is getting closer. I took him to the vet Friday. He has some fatty lumps. The vet said I shouldn’t be concerned. She and her assistant were amazed that Max is 11. They said his muscle tone was exceptional for a dog his age and that he just does not look like a dog that is that old. So, hopefully the worst day of my life is far away.
I’m sure Sunny is getting extra attention.
I have said plenty and I don’t know what else to say so I’ll leave you with this:
We give dogs time we can spare, space we can spare and love we can spare.
And in return, dogs give us their all. It’s the best deal man has ever made.
-M. Acklam
Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.
-Roger Caras
If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then give him only two of them.
-Phil Pastoret
It’s has been three months since we put Pati to sleep but I still couldn’t bring myself to read most of your post. You have my sympathies. Digger sounds like a dog I wish I had known.
Thank you for letting us know, Rachel. Just reading your account was very cathartic. I hope writing such a lovely tribute brought some comfort to you. It takes time to grieve, and all sorts of unexpected things will set off the tears for months to come. But that’s the healing process. It’s needed. Thank goodness that you have such a wonderful support network around you, and that you and John (and Rupert & Muriel, too), have been so very decent with one another. I only wish more people who have divorced could apply as much maturity, kindness, and consideration to their ex-partners for their childrens’ sake as you have for your beautiful dogs’.
As for Digger, Shakespeare said it best: “Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…” (It’s what is on our old girl’s gravestone, as well.) He was noble to the end. God bless you all and, someday, may you find another wonderful dog to give your love and good care to.
I agree with MightySamurai’s suggestion that now might be a good time to share some of our happier memories of our gone-but-not-forgotten pets with one another. So, in the tradition of a good Irish wake, please allow me to share one of my favorite doggie memories with you…
I always hated it when my husband took off for the North Woods to go deer hunting because I was not all that fond of being alone in the house when my son was much younger. Hubby’s absence also drove our good old dog’s Alert level up from her usual Orange all the way to Red. Not only did she continue her custom of sleeping between me and the door at all times (a method, I assume, she learned from the Blue Heeler Mafia Bodyguard’s Handbook), but she took to regular patrols of the house by night. In other words, when Daddy’s camo came out, so did hers. I only wish she’d been requsitioned some night vision goggles, while they were at it.
One late evening while hubby was gone a-hunting, nature called. When I got up and made my way to the bathroom (in the dark, so as not to wake my son), she got up with me and headed out to the kitchen for a drink and a snoop around. Business finished, I headed back to bed, only to pause in my son’s doorway for a moment to listen to hear if he was still breathing. (It’s an anal retentive mom thing, don’t ask…) So, I was just kind of hanging there in the hall, in his doorway, listening, when I heard the deepest, most ungodly, spine-chilling, hair on the back of your neck-raising growl coming out of the kitchen.
I absolutely froze thinking, “Oh, my God! There’s someone in the house and she’s got him cornered.” Basically, everyone’s biggest nightmare. My mind was racing, as I was certain I would hear screaming or a gunshot or a horrible yelp at any moment. Had she given me enough time to grab my son and get behind a locked door? And how could I leave her out there to face a possibly armed criminal, if she had? What was I going to do?
It was at that point that I heard, I kid you not, the cartoon-esque sound of four clawed paws scrabbling, trying to find better purchase on linoleum as she came barreling, snarling, baying, no, ROARING toward me! I had about a half a second to figure out who exactly she’d mistaken for a burgler before I flipped on the hall light, yelling, “It’s me! It’s me! It’s me!”
Heelers look enough like dingoes in the first place to make them look fairly wild for a mid-sized dog, but they are also very stocky and muscular. When she was in “protect mode”, the hair on her back and shoulders would rise to buffalo-esque proportions, making her look nearly double her size. And this was what I saw coming at me. Eye’s glowing green, teeth bared, the dog was baying like the Hound of the Baskervilles. She was all of two feet from me when she finally realized who it was.
Screeching to a halt, she stared up at me with a look of complete relief and, I swear, an audible “Whew!”. Down went the back fur, back went the curled lips, and she started circling me, wagging her butt off, licking me all over like she was scolding me, “My God, woman! Don’t do that to me again! I thought you were a burgler and I might actually have to eat somebody tonight!”
We sat there together for a long while in the hallway, trying to recover from our mutual near cardio-infarctions. We laughed (oh yes, she had a wonderful doggie laugh, especially when she was rooting around on us with her heinie in the air), and hugged, and finally went back to bed after all the excitement died down. Once again, she took up her post on the corner of the bed closest to the door. Only this time, when my head hit the pillow, I was a lot less worried about being alone.
With her gone, now, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel that safe again. We’ll have to see what this little one following in her big pawprints turns out like in the future. She’s already working on her own ferocious baby Baskerville bark.
So, let us raise our glasses high. Here’s to all the Good Dogs, to all the protectors and guardian angels and devoted ones… And tonight, especially, to the memory of Digger – a Good Dog, indeed.
Cheers!
Rachel, thanks for sharing this story and letting us go along with you on your journey. I must say, Digger has got to be the dog who has caused the most tears with his demise. (and I mean that in a good way.) You are such a good doggy mommy! I always thought to myself that it is a very scary thing to love someone/something so much that is mortal. It makes the toughest, strongest person vulnerable. I lost a dog years ago and haven’t been able to get another because I don’t want to have to lose one again. Wimpy, I know, but….. it DOES suck!
God Speed, Digger.
So, as promised, here is the silly, but true, little story.
A real good ol’ boy, had an old dog, about 192 years old. Getting to be time that dog was just falling apart and people said, “It’s time to put that poor ol’ thing down, ya know?” The fellow considered for a moment, then said, “Yeh, but I still got a half o’ bag of dogfood left!”
Perhaps you have seen the film “Harold and Maude,” the outdoor funeral scene. Everyone has been so somber, except Maude, of course. It is raining. As everyone leaves the gravesite, the people pop open big black umbrellas. A funeral director is handing out more. Then Maude appears in the crowd and opens up a bright yellow umbrella!
In a previous scene, at another funeral (this is a dark comedy, after all), Maude gestures to a crucifix:
“And why do they keep on about that? You’d think no one ever read the end of the story!”
Your pain will dampen, tho never fully leave. But the memory of humor and comedy that is a dog, whose worship of God is to frolic, will become stronger and soon overcome your grief with mirth. As is fitting.
Rachel, I could only write it all out once, so I used my own bandwidth to do so. Even still, I wish there was more that I could say. The old crappy thing people used to say, “better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” I think this is what they meant without knowing it. I don’t know if you will take the time to read it, but I hope you do.
http://jenniferhast.blogspot.com/2007/11/love-and-loss-and-stupid-emotions.html
Love and prayers and hugs and any other type of virtual support that I can give you.
Rachel, I’m really sorry.
hugs to you, Sunny, Rupert, John, and Muriel
And BlackSpot, that is SUCH a great story. Afraid my Frenchies are not quite that protective. Always said that Boris would attack and bite a bad guy’s ankle to know him down, then Batly would jump him and lick him to death by drowning. Now it will all be up to Boris, but I think he might just drool the poor burgler to death.
I’m so sorry. Bye, Digger.
Rachel, do not beat yourself up. It’s impossible to tell when you are in the middle of it if you waited too long. It’s impossible to tell because you see the doggie all day, every day and you just see minute changes in behavior and you lose track from month to month. You “can’t see the forest for the trees” of daily living. I probably waited too long with Stormy as she finally couldn’t even get up any more. I realized in retrospect that she had been struggling like such a brave trooper when the few front steps, and with half a dozen different things. But she would have done anything to please her mom and so I didn’t see the big picture.
I don’t believe it’s possible to know the right time and you just have to go with your best notion of what to do. You are not doing any harm to the precious pup and you may be doing great good.
Best wishes to you and Sunny.
Rachel,
Here I am watching the Patriots play with the Bills and you have me choking back tears.
I am very sorry for your loss. Just think of all the good times you had with Digger. Hopefully those memories will help you overcome your loss.
My prayers go out to you, Rupert, John and Sunny.
Aloha,
Harry
In keeping with the suggestion above, my favorite Stormy story, or at least the first that comes to mind:
Stormy came from the Prison Pet Partnership Program where she flunked out of assistance dog school because she is stubborn and at best an indifferent retriever. So lucky me: I had applied for a dog at just the right time so I got her. She knew all of her manners and she had not yet had time to unlearn them under my careless tutelage. So I was vacuuming one day and got a little to close to 50-lb doge who freaked and leaped, as on a spring, into a nearby chair. She then got a look of utter horror on her face, “Oh, my God, I’m on the furniture” and leaped right out again. Such guilt on her face I will never forget. And I hadn’t said a word, chiefly because I was laughing to hard.
{hug}
When I had to have my dog put down I just thought I’d had my heart broken before but it had just been scratched compared to the smashing to bits that I felt. I know you’re emotionally spent. Hope you get some good rest this week and I’m so sorry for your loss.
There’s a longstanding tradition, or doctrine if you will, that animals don’t have individual souls. Borrowed from a more ancient religious and philosophical tradition this doctrine has become one of the linchpins of natural law. That’s the “bad news.’ However, the good news is better than you expect (assuming this view has some merit). The doctrine doesn’t hold that individual animals are soulless. Quite the contrary, it’s the species soul that is important, and individual manifestations of that “species soul,” however beguiling, are merely an aspect. They are destined to merge back into that immortal soul of the species upon their passing, and live forever. Thus, when you look into the eyes of Sunny with this in mind, you should be able to see into the eyes of Digger.
Or, to put it another way…
R.I.P. Digger, a much-loved gentleman of a dog.
Best wishes to you, Rachel, and Rupert, and John and Muriel.
Rachel……
My condolances…..Yes I`ve been there , done what you had to do , suffered the sense of loss but knew the joy of having the unconditional love of cherished pet`s(Dogs, two of them , Sandy & Cindy) & ( Cats….many). Hang in there , the fact you will have the memories of your times with Digger for the rest of your life will make you richer by far as the pain of his passing fades. Damn, Gotta go now , my screen is getting a little blurry.
Rachel, thank you for sharing Digger’s life with all of us. These last two posts were extraordinary. My oldest cat — my baby, the one I’ve had all her life — will be 16 in April, and I can see signs that she’s starting to head downhill. It terrifies me that the time will come and I won’t know how to let her go, or know when to let her go. It seems that no matter how much time you have, it’s never enough. I deeply appreciate all you’ve said about your love for Digger, and I hope I’ll be able to face my own sorrow, when it comes, with half as much grace.
I’m so sorry Rachel*hugs*
Digger sounded like such a beautiful and amazing dog,and I hope you hold on to the happy memories you had with him.
I’m keeping you and Sunny in my prayers..because its so hard to lose a best friend.
I think you handled it a million times better than I ever could and did the best thing for him.
I now have to find a way to stop my darn eyes from leaking so much.
Take Care of yourself and sweet Sunny.
So Sorry
May God bless your family, dogs and people alike, at this time of loss.
I’m sorry Digger is gone, but I’m glad he had you while he was here.
My fat little Emily dog is sitting next to me, looking up at me, and making little concerned noises cus I’m crying. Or maybe it’s because I haven’t fed her yet. Or she wants to taste the snot and tears I have wiped on my shirt.
You post actually makes it easier to deal with my dog Misty’s death. Digger died with dignity surrounded by his family knowing he is loved. I”m sure dogs have a soul and you’ll see him when you follow him to heaven. he’ll be there waiting for you patiently, waggin his tail and wanting to play.
Rachel,
I think we all share your loss, and hope that the pain of losing Digger eases in the
coming days.
Digger will be waiting for you when its your time to cross~~~trust that.
-BushRat-
Very, very sorry.
Good Grief!
Now that I’ve bawled my eyes out, I just want to thank you for posting on your journey. Helping a pet along his or her way sucks. I’ve done it just once so far, but that was more than enough.
My heart goes out to you and Sunny and John.
You are on the right track, remember the good times and the not so good times ;)
But also remember, it’s ok when everything is going swell, and all of a sudden you burst into tears, it’s normal. Digger was a big part of your life.
Hell, it’s been 3 years since I had to put my Sweet Boy to sleep because of hip dysplasia, and sometimes I still cry for seemingly no reason at all. But they are getting fewer and fewer now.
Take care, Rachel, and breathe easy. You did the right thing. Digger is at peace now.
I’m 8,000 miles away.
I’m crying for a dog I’ve never met.
Good dog, Digger. Good dog.
Rachel, it’s 12:37 a.m. Monday and I’ve just finished your last Digger blog. My heart has been with you dear for I’ve been there four times. It’s one of the hardest things you ever have to do but you have so many good memories of your darling baby. I don’t know if you’ve heard of the website RainbowBridge. If not, please go there. It’s one of the most comforting sites I know of. Digger has crossed the Bridge and I know he’s with my babies and we’ll both see them again someday. They’re waiting for us.
Oh – I’m so sorry! We just lost our friend Wayne the rat on October 14, after a long journey with cancer. I held him while he died, and yes I even tried to do CPR on a rat. ( Ok, he wasn’t a dog, but unless you have befriended a rat you will not appreciate their incredible personalities. )
Pets are people, for sure. I hope you have some comfort in knowing that you made his time on earth happy. May you have no regrets but many fond memories.
I’ve always thought you were a gifted writer, Rachel . . . and these last few days, sharing your feelings about Digger, you have done some of the finest, most beautiful writing I’ve ever seen from you. I don’t know how you do it. In your circumstances, I would be a quivering wreck, unable to write a single coherent sentence.
There are a lot of us out here who love you and have been thinking of you through all of this. I wish it were possible for each one of us to take a little piece of your pain; among us, we would carry away every bit of it and you wouldn’t have to hurt at all. It sounds so reasonable; why can’t we do that? But I haven’t been able to figure out any way to make it work. Damn.
You said you don’t plan to beat yourself up about having waited too long, and I hope you won’t. Because you didn’t realize it until now. It’s something you’ve learned from the experience. You’ll know better next time. And maybe, because you shared the experience with us, we will too. Thank you.
I sincerely believe that if Digger could speak to you now, he would say, “Thank you for setting me free. I had a long, happy life with you, and it was enough. You always did right by me. I couldn’t have asked for a better owner than you.”
Peggy U: I understand even if nobody else does. My family has pet rats, and we have had to say goodbye to five of them over the years. Two needed euthanasia, so we went through an experience a lot like what Rachel describes. I cried. I know that to some people, the notion of a man in his forties crying over the death of a rat seems ridiculous. But, Peggy, you are right; they are gentle, affectionate creatures, and each one has a unique personality. I miss every one of them that I have lost.
Rachel–
Thank you so much. You have helped me put my own pain to rest by realizing that others feel the same.
My condolences. He was a beautiful dog.
I think what Ed says.I’m a cynical nasty tart at the best of times (grew up on a farm – animals regularly die etc etc ), and your post brought a tear to my eye. Take care. In time it will slowly start to not be so desperately, gut wretchingly sad.
Rachel,
I am so sorry that you had to say good-bye to Digger, but you were there for him, loving him. What better way to leave the world than to be surrounded by love.
He was a good dog, but you have been a good owner, too. You have absolutely done the best you could, and you took really good care of him.
Hug Sunny and Rupert. It will get better.
When I was a kid, we had a cat named Shadow. Quite a character: catlike in many ways, but doglike in one: she played fetch! We would use these little one-inch-diameter superballs. I’d pick one up, look at Shadow, and say “want to play ball?” Her eyes would catch fire, and she’d crouch down low in anticipation. Then the countdown: “Ready… set…. GO!” And off she went, following the ball wherever it might bounce. About one time in ten, she’d actually carry it back in her mouth! (Being a cat, the other 90% of the time she’d lose interest in the ball the moment she caught it, and then wait for ME to come get it and throw it again.)
Well, when the time came, it was really hard on me and my Dad. But my Mom, who was very close to Shadow, seemed surprisingly unfazed at the time.
About a week later, Mom was vacuuming the living room. She slid the head of the vacuum under the couch, moved it around a bit, and pulled it back toward her. The head caught on something… and a little red superball rolled out. She burst into tears.
Rachel,
Sorry to hear about Digger. Good dogs (and what else are they that we love and love us back?) always leave far too soon, no matter how many years they are around. I believe that God doesn’t lose anything good, and I fully expect to see my dogs again when I go (I’ll need all the character witnesses I can get).
One thing you may not have realized, Rachel, is that thanks to your blogging, Digger has now achieved a certain immortality that most of us won’t. Most people, not to mention dogs, live out their lives in relative obscurity and once we’re gone, we’re gone. What do we know, for instance about the average Joe or Jane Whosis from 186X? Nothing. But thanks to your lovely lovely tributes to Digger, he’ll be around forever, no further away than a Google search.
I know that I’ll want to read about him again some time, and all I’ll have to do is search out the articles, and there he’ll be again, in all his canine glory.
I think that’s pretty neat.
I’ve never understood why calling someone a “dog” is an insult. Dogs do not lie, are intensely loyal to their own, and offer unconditional love.
I’m so sad that you had to go through this, but at least poor Digger’s sufferings are over.
I’m so, so sorry….
I’m crying with you—all 6’2″ 250 lbs of me. I think I’ll go hug my dogs. You can have one too—a hug that is….
I know what you’re going through. It’s been weeks and I still get teary. Actually, for a few days after I put my dog to sleep, I had to avoid thinking about her- I’d get a gripping in my chest, and knew I’d be a mess.
The first day I just cried all day. But now, I can think about her w/o becoming too upset. Happy memories.
I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m glad you and Digger had each others love.
“The best friend a man has in this world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son and daughter that he had reared with loving care may become ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him when he may need it most. Man’s reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees and do us honour when success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our head. The only absolutely unselfish friend a man may have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog.
A man’s dog stands by him in prosperity and poverty, in health and sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, when the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he can be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of a pauper as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert… he remains.
When riches take wings and reputations fall to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth an outcast into the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by his grave side will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws and his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even to death.”
http://chicobandido.blogspot.com/2007/07/eulogy-on-dog.html
Rachel,
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I can only say that you did the humane thing.
My best Wishes and Prayers are with you all.
Rachel,
I’m so sorry. Digger had a great life and great people to share it with him.
I’m reading this at work and had to read this in numerous chunks so that I would not break down.
What Maximus said.
Good, dog, Digger, Good dog!
PeggyU…I’ve had rats for pets before as well. They truly are some of the most affectionate animals out there. It doesn’t matter what type of pet, when you have formed that bond, it hurts to see them go.
Rachel…it’s the start of another day and I’m still thinking and feeling for you. The emptiness is going to be there for quite awhile….if you’re anything like me, you’ll still be crying at random times….to tie this together, when my rat Lucy died, I cried for three days straight….then it was at random times when I was thinking about her….I drove for a living, (one of my jobs at the time) and cried in the car while delivering an item….later at night I would cry behind the bar where I worked….it was hard to keep the tears back and I didn’t want to…I wanted to be able to cry and not have to explain to anyone why I was…but at the same time, it was very good to get out and do things.
I hope I don’t come across as giving assvice….you work from home so you have the freedom to let the tears flow when they are ready to flow….at the same time, I hope you get out of the house and get some fresh air…doesn’t make anything easier but it does help.
Anyway, I’ll shut up now…I’m just letting you know I’m still thinking of you today and hoping you’ll be ok.
A very good dog.
Thanks for sharing this journey with us. I hope it helps you. I know it will help me in the future when I have to make that decision. I will remember your words, and be reinspired.
There are dogs, and then there are good dogs. Digger was a good dog. Rest in peace.
Rest in peace, Digger. And peace to Sunny, Rachel, Rupert, John and Muriel – at knowing that it was the right time for you to do what needed to be done. He knew he was loved and cherished and you all have given him a great life and a dignifed death.
May Digger be with you in all the empty places where you must walk.
There is the story of the old lady who lost her dog, Sneakers. She kept bugging her minister with, ” Will I see Sneakers in heaven?” After being asked the question a dozen time, he blurted out, ” If you can’t be happy in heaven without Sneakers, God will make sure he is there.” In March, we lost Drake, our wonderful Yellow Lab. We still miss him and I keep his photo on my blog. But someday I will see him again as you will Digger for what gave us love, joy, and happiness makes us what we are as individuals and that will always be part of us forever.
Ted
My sincere and heartfelt condolences on your great loss. I know in my heart that you did the right thing.
I, too, have had pet rats in the past (one, Cupid, would ride around in the arm of my sweatshirt) and have one now. He is intelligent, curious, and quite a little personality, and I will bawl like a baby when he leaves.
I hope to have quite a wall of furballs hit me when I return to the other side, and pray nightly to be given that joy. The highest and best wish I could send all of you is the same; that your beloveds will be waiting for you.
Elizabeth
Imperial keeper
I’m not going to read all of these comments b/c I don’t want to cry at work. But I envy you b/c you got to choose when Digger went and you got to thoroughly enjoy his last few weeks. It was time very well spent. You said one of the smartest things that I could think of (and I’m quoting from memory so I’m sure I’ll fuck it up): Now that he is gone, the pain has to go as well.
Think about those frisbee days, those camping days, those days of giving Sunny the business end of the Pink Crayon. Not the hurt, the hips, the crying. That stuff no longer exists because you did him right. The good will last forever. The tears will be there for some time. Mine still are. But the good memories will always outlive the bad. My heart goes to you all. Give Sunny 5lbs of pork and rub her in every spot legal. It will help you both. I promise.
Came over from SarahK’s–very sorry for your loss. A beautiful companionship.
Rachel… Just damn girl! I bawled like a baby!
I am so sorry for your loss. I’ve heard it said that a dog exists only to give itself completely to someone and you are blessed that Digger gave himself to you.
The hardest job we have as dog owners is to be the dogs advocate and voice at the end but it is never, ever easy. It’s a cruel thing that something so pure and good is with us for so short a time.
The hole in your heart remains forever, as it should, but I promise that time will lessen the sting.
I’d type more but the damn eye sweat is blurring the screen.
Chuck
Although it may sound trite at a time like this, take comfort in the fact that Digger knew he was loved and cherished as the treasure he is. God loaned you His precious creation, and it was time for Digger to go home. Hold tight to the years of memories that you were blessed with. You should have the peace of mind of knowing that you always did what is best for Digger. He is free, but you will see him again someday.
God bless you and give you the strength to get through this and the days to come.
Powerful, powerful stuff. I’ve been reading intently for the past few days, knowing some of what you’re going through. You had this rock-hearted old f-rt in tears. My prayers are with you.
Your loyal commenter-friends have expressed every aspect of sympathy and condolence that I could ever think of. I’ll just say, “me too”, including the shedding of tears for a strong, profane, hilariously funny woman I’ve never met, and the wonderful old dog she loves. All of us who’ve been through this with a beloved pet understand just how you’re feeling right now. It won’t always hurt this bad.
well crap…I should have waited until this evening to read this because starting my day sobbing never turns out good…I’ll be exhausted in a few minutes. I’m looking at my old girl and just sobbing. I can’t imagine going through this. There are no words. Thank you for sharing Rachel. I hate crying but tears for doggies seem so much easier to shed. I thi nk I’ll go laugh at my puppy now. Give Sunny lots of icky treats and hugs. =D
I’m so sorry about your loss.
It brought back so many memories of what I had just gone through a few months ago. My little terrier was 8 and had some sort of stroke or seizure, couldn’t move her hind legs, and her neck and front legs were all straight out and stiff. The emergency vet said there was nothing we could do, and I had to put our sweet little girl down.
I was with her when she died too, and I can empathize with you, Rachel. You feel like you’ve abandoned them, but then it does finally hit you that you have to stop the pain, and you did the right thing.
My prayers and thoughts go with you.
Now, don’t make me cry anymore … :-)
I’m so very sorry. I know it was his time, but it’s very hard to let go of our very beloved dogs. We went through nearly the same thing about 4 years ago – reading this brought it all back and I’m crying with you as I sit here.
He was a lucky dog – to be with people who loved him so much – and you were lucky to have such a wonderful friend and so many great memories.
my 11 year old lab Buddy passed away in his sleep beside me a year ago , I fell asleep at 11 woke up at 1 and he was gone, I still grieve…still look for him in the house. I am so sorry for you
We lost our dog, Goldie, about 6 months ago. The wife and I were in the exam room with her, while our daughters were outside crying their eyes out. Not that I was any better. She’d been part of the family for 16 years, and our youngest two could barely remember a time when she wasn’t with us. It is by far the most difficult thing I have had to do, but it was the right thing to do. But even now, hardly a day goes by that we don’t think about her.
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Rachel.
I am so sorry.
I will pray for you.
Rachel, So sorry for your loss. Brought tears to my eyes thinking of when I had to have my first real dog put down. Kato, he was named after the pink panther character because he had this habit of stalking me and then springing from out of hiding places on me and trying to give me heart attacks. Never worked tho thankfully. He was a really good dog, barked too much, wanted CONSTANT attention and was a nervous wreck whenever we had storms of anykind. He used to jump on my bed and pant/shake so hard you’d swear you were on one of those cheap vibrating motel beds. Anyway, he was about 10 years old, had already been hospitalized once a few years before with a mysterious illness which I think made his nervousness worse. He had severe seperation anxiety the last couple of years, and I tried several different medications to help him with no luck. Shortly before I was to get married, his seperation anxiety got to the point where he was hurting himself and destroying my house. He became violently ill, incontinent, vomiting, etc. One day I came home, and he had torn the screendoor off between the house and the garage and cut his nose, paws and chest to pieces, my best guess was it was because it was really windy and it freaked him out. Anyway, after another month or two of meds and trying different things, my vet suggested putting him down as he was getting worse by the week. It ended up that we had him put to sleep exactly one week before our wedding. Talk about a tough week. It took me almost a year before I could even think of getting another dog, my new bride saw how hard I was taking it and one day I came home to see a year old black lab in my house. T-bone, he helped me more than I can say in recovering from the devastation of losing Kato. I think Sunny will help you through this in ways that you can’t even yet imagine.
My continued prayers for you and yours.
Your story about Digger brought back the painful but correct decision we made to ease the pain of one of our pets about 9 years ago.
Her name was Neekie, she was a rotty chow mix, and quite frankly, the BEST pet we’ve ever had. The only threat she posed to anybody who knew her was licking them to death. She was also a big baby about thunderstorms and would always clamor to come inside anytime the weather threatened.
One day, we noticed she wasn’t getting around as easily as she normally did. Took her to the vet and found out she had cancer that had left her paralyzed from her waist down.
We were devastated at the news, but knew what we had to do for her. Painful decision to be sure, but the right one.
Your post about Digger reassures us to this day about how right a decision that was.
My sincere condolences, Rachel.
As mightysamurai suggested, I’ll share a happy dog memory. My family’s velvety brown Chinese Shar-Pei, Charlotte, loooooved peanut butter dog treats. Inhaled the things in seconds.
My grandfather, one of those quiet stern types, really liked Char and knew of her PB obsession. He delighted in putting a treat in his shirt pocket, sitting on the couch and waiting for her to smell the PB and follow the scent to him. He got such a wicked grin out of watching her figure out the treat’s location.
Char’s gone now. So is Poppa. I have that happy memory forever, though.
Take care, Rachel.
I’m very sorry for your sadness and wish you the best.
My wife and I went through the same thing with her cat. She had a wonderful, smart, loving cat who had gone through high school and college with her. A few years into our marriage, her cat developed kidney failure. We gave her fluids to help and, for as long as they helped, we kept it up. Eventually, though, even the fluids didn’t help. We finally took her to the vet where they put her down. She was small, so my wife held her in her arms as she died. We spread her ashes under her favorite tree at my wife’s childhood home.
As you say, the joy that pets bring is worth the sorrow at their loss, but that doesn’t reduce the sorrow.
We now have two more cats AND two dogs and they bring us much joy. They’re all young, now, and we focus on enjoying life with them. They bring much joy to our lives and we do our best to care for them and play with them and take good care of them.
EI
I hate to admit this, but I was always a little bit more fond of Digger than of Sunny. Not because Sunny isn’t a beautiful, smart, ass-kicking sort of a doggie girl, but because I have an enormous soft spot for older dogs and cats. Probably because I came to have my first pet of my very own, tabby cat Smudge, when he was 8 years old. You really come to appreciate the short amount of time you have with them: it heightens your focus, your “zen”, the idea that you only have a little bit of time left with them and you can’t take it for granted, not one moment!
I, too, am thankful to have known Digger, such as it were, and to have shared his times both good and bad with you. As much as you may feel you should have done this earlier, I understand. Perhaps this is one of the many lessons sweet old Digger was supposed to teach you. Whatever he was going through, he knew he was loved, and the power of that is something that can never be underestimated.
My heart and prayers are with you, Rachel, and I will think of Digger every time I see a dog that looks like him. And I will say to myself …
And smile.
Rachel,
I thought of you all weekend and what you were going to have to do. I dreaded checking your blog this morning.
You know, if you lived near me you would be one of my friends (I hope), and in times like these we mourn with, and for, our friends. I am so sorry for what you had to do, but I am so thankful you were able to share it all with us so we could carry some of your burden.
It gets better. Slowly.
*comfort*
Not must to say when a beloved pet or person passes on.
I prefer to think of it as they have simply gone before me, to make sure things are right and safe for me when I finally catch up.
Digger’s just scouting out a new field for you to play in is all…and he’s strong and in no pain so…endure the parting for the moment.
Rachel,
My heart is breaking for you. It sucks so gigantically that their little lives are so short. But you know you did the right thing by Digger and can feel comforted that his pain is over. Thanks also for sharing this painful process with us – I think it’s been cathartic for many of your readers – has been for me.
But please don’t second guess yourself. Just being with you and Sunny may have been enough to give Digger some pleasure. Many people endure pain, some severe, in their daily lives, yet I’m willing to bet most will tell you that spending time with loved ones eases that pain, and they value those moments. You were there with Digger everyday and I really believe if you thought he was in intolerable pain earlier, you would have taken action sooner. Guess what I’m trying to say, there’s no right or wrong, or prescribed timeline for this. Have faith that you acted in Digger’s overall best interest.
I’m also hoping, after you’ve had some time to recover, you’ll consider getting a friend for Sunny. Dogs that have become accustomed to having a “canine sibling”, can become very lonely when that sibling is gone. Of course, I’m making this suggestion assuming you’d want another puppy and you may not, but you would be amazed how much a new puppy also helps to ease the pain.
Take care and I look forward to some more posts celebrating the fantastic life and times of “Digger the very good dog.”
Rachel, you stated “no more crying” but trust me, there will be weeks of crying.
You deserve to cry, you miss your good friend and need to let out your emotions. Cry all you want sweetie, it’s necessary.
Just always remember all the joy Digger brought you and John and Rupert. That will help heal the hurt.
Rachel:
It’s tough but you did the right thing. I also screwed up when my later father’s dog’s time came. I waited to long until he was disabled and unable to move. I’ve never felt more like a piece of shit than then. You did okay, girl! Just give Sunny a lot of love.
I am so sorry for you, John and Sunny. You are all in my prayers. I’m picturing Digger young and free and running where I know you will all get to see him again someday. I love the internet because it let me know all of you and you’ve touched me in so many ways. Thank you.
Rachel,
I had the most difficult time reading through your account. I can’t imagine what it was like to live it. You have my deepest sympathies and respect for making such a tough decision. Digger is thanking you though I’m sure. The last thing he would have remembered now is your love and not his pain. Don’t ever feel like you let him down. You are a good mommy.
Hug Sunny for me.
there are no words Rachel. Love to you and Sunny, Rupert, John and Muriel.
You people were more civilized with your dog than most people with their children.
I am proud of you, and grieve with you.
Your blog and you blogging about Digger and Sunny brings me a lot of joy, I have lurked here for a while, but when you make a grown man sob( an infantry sgt. for Gods sake) I was moved to comment. Digger trusted you to do the right thing, so you did the right thing. You know how lucky you were when Digger shared his life with you. The pain will go but the joy of memories will remain. Thanks for sharing, drive on.
My wife and I just put down one of the twin labs we got 13 years ago (got him 3 months after we were married). He had the same health problems Digger did, and we went through exactly the same thoughts and process you just endured. It was absolutely the hardest thing I have ever done, and I can’t read your blog without reliving the whole thing again.
It will be really hard for the first week; the furballs in the corners, the smell of his blanket, the bark you do not hear will make you cry unexpectedly and often. But it does get better.
You have our heartfelt sympathy.
Rachel
Thanks for sharing your life and stories with us. I was sobbing like a 3 year old reading about Digger’s last ride. After reading for years (first time around and in your latest blog) about Digger & Sunny I felt like they were my cousins dogs and I knew them personally.
I know that it’s a hard thing; when my first Girlie, Corky, departed this life it was the most difficult thing I’d ever dealt with. She was pushing 16 and had just had a second stroke. Her eyes couldn’t remain still and she could not get up and move under her own steam but she still had that spirit that she had as a puppy. I loved her so much so when it was time it was really hard to do because we too waited far too long. We didn’t realize that it was our selfishness that lead to her suffering longer than she should have. In the end, she did forgive us….you could tell by that last look in her eyes…..(sob).
I have two Girlies these days, Elsy (who’s nine, and a lab/collie mix) and Ida (who’s five, and a lab/shepherd mix) and they’re the light of our lives (along with my children of course….except you can count on the dogs!!).
Even though it is very difficult to endure the pain of losing them I will never again be without a dog in the house….the long term joy they bring to our lives far outweighs our short term pain when they leave us. What we’re left with is our memories of devotion and love. Hard to beat that.
Take solace in the fact that Digger was in love too. With you!
Chinny
Rachel–You wrote it beautifully, & hopefully this will be a good guide for others facing the same situation. Sadly, our pets just don’t live as long as we’d like to, & we ultimately have to make a very difficult decision. It’s always soooo difficult the first time you have to make that sad decision, & it’s almost inevitable that we let our beloved pet linger longer than he/she should have. I did that with my Gremlin (who I wrote about in the previous thread). He had been with me thru so many difficult times that I just couldn’t face it when it was becoming clear that it was time for him. He tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen. I cried & cried thru the procedure. But once it was over, I took it as a lesson learned for the next time.
The good news is that you’ll always have those wonderful memories of your terrific first doggie. And you have Sunny. And you’ll undoubtadly have another wonderful doggie too. And they’ll continue to give us the same heartache in the end. But it’s something you would never pass up. I can’t imagine not having kitties in my life, & I realize that losing them in the end is the bittersweet bargain we make, But they bring us so much joy, & fond memories, that it makes it all worth it.
Condolences all around to you & Rupert & John & his girlfriend (& again, kudos to all of you for being so civil to each other) & Sunny. Here’s hoping Sunny & her weekend guest have much fun & sniffing & humping! And that you humans have a reasonably happy Thanksgiving too.
You probably didn’t enjoy it much, but the Cowboys did beat the Skins. And you’ve got another pretty solid win coming up on Thursday. May you all cheer up enough to enjoy the day! And rest assured–you did do the right thing.
I’ve never been a dog person, but I find myself crying like a baby reading about Digger. I hope where ever he is, he’s up there chasing my Harley around. :-)
The worst thing about putting her down is tied between how quick it was and the feeling like I was abandoning her by not taking her with me. She didn’t have a catheter or IV or anything. She layed down on the table while I petted her, the vet gave her a shot, she looked like she was having a seizure and it was over. Her tongue fell out of her mouth and she was gone. And I completely lost it. I stayed in that room with her for about 20 minutes. I just couldn’t bear to leave her there. I thought about picking her up and putting her in her cat carrier and I came really, really close to doing it. If I could’ve figured out a place to bury her in the middle of December, I would’ve taken her.
It hurts so bad, and I still cry when I think about all the good times I had with her. Sometimes knowing that I helped her get out of pain helps and a lot of times it feels like a cop out. I know it was for the best, just like you know it was for Digger. I hope your pain eases with time. I’m still waiting…
I’m so very sorry, Rachel. Best.
RIP Digger. :o( Say hey to Dudley, Teddy, Shelley and Jack for me.
Years ago I read a “Dear Abby” column that concerned the letter a small boy had written about when his dog had died. Apparently the vet (or somebody) had told him that dogs didn’t go to heaven because they didn’t have souls. Abby consulted a Cardinal in Chicago who said that heaven will be everything you want it to be. And if you want your dog to be there with you he will be.
So you should just say “Hey, Digger, I will be along before you know it. Just hang tight for a little while”.
My condolences on your loss.
Milton
Rachel, I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thank you for allowing Digger to be part of our lives up to the last moments.
We’re with you
Rachel,
I’ve only been owned by cats, but I have known some swell, extraordinary canines that belonged to close friends. I cannot tell you that I know how you feel because that would be a terrible lie. I can only tell you that I am so sorry to hear that your beloved Digger is no longer at your side, and that you are filled with so much remorse over having ‘waited to long’. I truly don’t know what to say about that although I hope you will come to terms soon, and forgive yourself — as I am certain Digger has done.
I have seen the pain on the faces of my friends as they considered the inevitable. I have seen those beautiful companions in their prime, and then grow old and frail, slowed down from pain and complications. My friends and the love they felt for these creatures was always genuine and contagious. In my own way, I miss those loving dogs who greeted me, played with me, shared their bounty.
May you always remember the best about Digger, and allow the light you received from him shine on Sunny, as well as all your close friends.
Emanuel
Just lost my Nicky a few months ago. So I really do feel your pain. The bitter gets a little less, and the sweet gets a little more, with time.
We lost our Good Boy Buddy not long ago – my heart breaks for you. I firmly believe that all dogs go to heaven and that we WILL see them again. Peace be with you all.
I am going to go stop crying now…
Of course Digger will go to Heaven. There he will meet up with Schatzie, Dougal, Shoestrings and EverReady, and have a Doggie Good Time. And when it’s time for treats and pets and scritches, Mama Wanda (my Mom) will be there for him.
Mama Wanda will just stand in for you, and will always remind Digger that Mom and Dad will join him, someday….
My condolences also.
I’d like to add a little something to Demosophist’s post about the group soul. The same or a similar teaching says that animals “graduate” to having an individual human soul usually as a result of a life as a domestic animal; a life of service. So according to that, you not only shared love with Digger but you also helped him immensely along his spiritual path. And vice-versa I’m sure.
I had put off reading this because I knew it would make me cry. I finally did just now and my prediction came true. I never really know what to say in situations like this. I can’t say that I know what you’re going through because I don’t. Since my engagement fell apart three years ago I have tried to emotionally detach myself from pretty much everything. I’m afraid that if I put my feelings on the line with anything that I’ll go through that pain again, which is something I never wanted to do. In that way, I am a coward. You are the strong one. You are a lot stronger than I’ll ever be to willingly put yourself through something like that. Having to make that decision probably hurt a million times worse than some chick dumping me while I was in Iraq. That seems very petty to me now, comparing it to what you just went through. You’ll be in my prayers tonight, Rachel. Thank you for sharing that with me. You’ve shown me that love isn’t really love unless you’re willing to put yourself through what you went through for the right reasons. I’m sorry if I’m coming off the wrong way and trying to make this about me, but this post really opened my eyes to what love really is, whether it be for another human being or for an animal. Maybe now I can stop being an asshole and start opening up to people again. I hope you feel better and, again, you’ll be in my prayers tonight. If there is anything I can do for you at all just let me know.
– Dave
Dogs are keenly tuned to your emotions. Once many years ago a girl that I was going with, out of the blue, dumped me for another.
I was devastated. When no one but my dog was around, I fell apart. The reaction of my dog was intense concern, ears perked up and he would not get out of my face or leave me alone. Looking back, that girl did me a favor by dumping me for another. That beautiful girl eventually turned herself into a thief and a drug addict and destroyed her mind and body.
I still miss that dog though.
Rachel –
Like others, I’m a long time reader and seldom poster. But you and your grief are in our thoughts tonight. I don’t know where this came from, but it’s appropriate:
“Until one has loved an animal, part of their soul remains unawakened”
– Don
Rachel, beautiful, and extremely moving tribute to a fantastic friend. I have a 13 year old golden retriever/collie mix and know that day is coming for me. She’s still in good health but we all know the life spans. I’ve had two before her and that day gets harder every time.
Take comfort in that you gave him a great life (sadly, many of those fantastic creatures don’t get the loving home they deserve) and he gave you unmatched unconditional love in return. Also know you did the hardest, and right, thing by sucking it up to send him off (temporarily) when the time was right.
It really is cruel how short the lifespans of those fantastic creatures are. But through the sadness and tears they stay, ever lovingly, by your side.
You WILL see Digger again! He will be waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge. Of course dogs go to Heaven – how could it be Heaven without them?
I’ve been hugging and petting my good old girl Casey more than ever recently (your posts have a lot to do with that). I’m going to treat her to a grooming too (not that she enjoys it but she, and countless others, looooooooooves her stunning and effervescent beauty, making her ever more the center of attention). And, after all, is there anything our lovely four legged companions crave more?
When the time is right open your door to another another canine pal – he’ll be one lucky, and grateful ball of fur.
I am so sorry for your loss. I, too lost my beloved Golden Retriever, Roxy, 2 weeks ago after being blessed with her presence for almost 14 years. They are members of the family and it is really hard to let go. You will be glad you were there at the end, though, and time works wonders to heal us. I wish you fond memories of your Digger.
You tell such Digger’s story in such a beautiful and moving way. I’m sitting at my desk crying and my co-workers think I’m crazy! We always a lot of animals (dogs, cats, birds, rabbits, guinea pigs, rats, etc) around when I was growing up and losing one was always like losing a member of the family.
My favorite dog was Sparky. One of our neighbors rescued her out a dumpster and then turned her loose on the street because she was too “ugly”. My mom was going to take her to a shelter that specialized in matching dogs with elderly people who need companionship, but she never made it. It was storming one evening so my mom let Sparky in the house while we were gone. When we got home, we discovered that she needed to go to the bathroom while we were gone. She had never been housebroken, but instead of relieving herself on the carpet, she pulled newspaper down off the recycle stack and peed on that. It was decided on the spot that she could stay. She never did it again, but she knew what she needed to do to be allowed to stay! She was a very special member of our family.
When it was her time to go 14 years later, most of us had moved out of the house. She waited until we were all at my mom’s celebrating my marriage so that we could all say our goodbyes. It was such a sad ending to a wonderful day, but I’m so glad she waited until we were all home. I don’t know what I would have done had I not been there.
It gets easier as time goes by, but that love you have for Digger will never leave you and the love that he had for you will never leave you either. Thank you so much for sharing.
Your heart is broken, I know. My heart is broken reading your beautiful tribute to Digger.
Your baby is at peace and my prayers go with him.
Rachel,
Sorry it took me so long to get here, I’ve been busy – though now that I think of it, while you’re part of my regular rounds (along w/Bill, Kim, Misha & Frank), I’ve always at least largely agreed with you and, since I don’t do ‘echo-chamber’, I’ve never actually commented here before.
I’ll try to change that no-commenting thing.
Thank you for sharing Digger – one more friend for Toby, Mr. White, Rebel, Amtrack, Coca & Peaches-the-Mommy-Cat
I’m sure they’re all getting on fine.
– MuscleDaddy
Please let me offer my most heart felt condolences to you and who ever else loved this dog. I know exactly what you are going through. I have had 3 of my dogs grow old and die in the last 2 years. Two died in their sleep and saved me the great pain and sorrow of having to have them put down. My most faithful old basset hound “Mr. Itchy” hung on as long as he could though. He did not want to leave this life and his family but he was very sick and very tired. I could not bear to let him suffer anymore so I took him to the vet and asked for a shot that would put him down but that would take some time to do so.
I wanted to take him home and let him die there with his loved ones and his familiar surroundings and favorite toys around him. The vet gave him the shot and told us it would be between 45 minutes to 1-1/2 hours before he passed but that he would definitely go peacefully to sleep and not feel any pain. I cried for days (I am a strong, silent type guy in his mid 50s).
That dog was like a son to me. I got him when he was weaned and had him for 13-1/2 years. He was always by my side. I made him a nice little casket and lined it with his favorite dog bed. I put his toys and everything else he owned in with him and buried him next to the other 2 dogs that had previously passed away. I have a small dog cemetery in my back yard with tombstones and flowers and the whole works. I never want to forget them.
It hurts for quite a long time but eventually the pain goes away and the good memories of life with him and the others takes over. It’s been over a year now and I can finally think of him without tearing up. I know his soul had to have gone to heaven and I believe he is waiting for me to get there too.
Now and then I dream of him and I think he is talking to me and trying to comfort me. Who knows, maybe I’m just a batshit crazy old man but I love my dogs. I have 4 other dogs and two of those will probably pass int the next year or so.
It never gets any easier but I love dogs and they are indeed “Man’s Best Friend”.
I pray for you and all who loved this dog that just passed away. Know that he loves you and is waiting in the spirit world for you to join him someday. He’s happy and free now but he surely misses his master as much as he is missed.
Joe
Rachel and family,
I am so sorry. I came to love reading about Digger and Sunny. Rachel’s words beautifully conveyed how much Digger is loved. I will pray for all of you and ask that my Nala check on Digger and that a 12-year old boy who loved my dogs as much as I did go check on Digger too.
My heart is broken for you and my thoughts and prayers are with you.
cranky
I’m sitting here blubbering like a baby. I’ve sat on the floor and held my best friends in my lap for this final act of love. So hard to do but it must be done. Max was my buddy for 12 yrs and a hell of a dog. I’m sure him and Digger will get along fine.
Take care
Dear Rachel,
We had to let our cat go last year after 18 years of love. It was hard watching her stop eating and then struggle with every breath. We took her to the vet and I got to hold her as the drugs were injected. Just because something’s the right thing to do doesn’t make it easy. I’m sorry for your loss. Honor the memory.