Two days ago, I had to have my beloved Jack euthanized.  He was 10 years old.  For some time now, I’ve been bracing myself for it to be Basil, who will be 14 this year.  I was not prepared to lose Jack.  I mean, in all honesty, you’re never really prepared, but at least with Basil’s age, you know in the back of your mind that it’s coming.

Some of you may remember that Jack ducked the scythe two years ago when his spleen ruptured and he bled out.  I was so lucky to have the amazing vet crew that I do, who were able to give him another shot at life and I’m so grateful that I had these past two years with him.

Over the past few months, he had periodically not wanted to eat and acted kind of off, but it always passed within a few hours and he was back to his usual goofy, lovable self.  Any time we took him to the vet after one of these episodes, he was all clear.

Thursday morning he didn’t want his breakfast, and he was due for routine bloodwork and an exam anyway.  Results showed that he was pretty anemic, which led to an ultrasound, which led to an x-ray.  I never expected the phone call that I got from the vet.  Imaging suggested a large, probably inoperable tumor in his abdomen, almost certainly malignant, and he was bleeding somewhere.  The options were surgery or euthanasia.

I’ve seen animals crash on the operating table.  The likelihood was that Jack would never come out of surgery.  I couldn’t let his last moments in life be intubated and cut open on a surgical table.  I couldn’t let his last waking moments be in fear and pain and surrounded by strangers.  Well, maybe not strangers entirely - I know that staff well, but it’s not the same as being with family.

We took him home, but he was fading fast.  He went from being bright and alert and his usual self the night before to dying in the span of a few hours.  Even just coming home from the vet, the change was obvious.  He was ready to stop fighting a battle we didn’t even know he was in.

He couldn’t even get out of the car; I had to lift him out.  He could barely walk or go up the steps.  I couldn’t believe how fast it was happening.  How could it happen like that?  How could he go from normal to this so quickly?

I stayed with him while my mother agonized over the decision.  I watched his breathing change, listened to his heart-rate accelerate and respiration become shallow and slow.  I checked his gums and they were white.  It was time and I had to make the decision to take him back in.

I stayed with him until the end.  I brought his blankie with him and stroked his fur and kissed his velvet ears.  I told him he was a good dog and it was okay to stop fighting and go to sleep.  I told him that I loved him.

Then it was over.  In a span of about 3 hours, I went from not knowing anything was wrong to having to say goodbye to Jack.

I’m not a poet and I don’t really have the words to express how much I loved him and the pain of his loss.  Jack was a big, dopey ol’ Labrador.  He was at the bottom of the pack, but he was so full of love.  You’ve never seen a more loving dog, I promise you that.  He didn’t know anything, ANYTHING but love.  He loved everyone and everything.  He had two settings: GO and sleep.  He loved to play play play and snore.  He loved to fetch a tennis ball and pull with a pull toy.  If I gasped because a bug caught me by surprise, Jack was the one who would come running from wherever he was to rescue me.  As big as he was, he had a puppy bark.

He was such a doofus; not terribly bright, but so loving and so sweet.  I miss him so much.