By Robin Grant
Dogs have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Their unconditional love has provided a lifeline of emotional support during some very dark times. In the aftermath of a failed relationship and a thoroughly broken heart, being accountable to my dogs, and needing to care for them, literally gave me a reason to get up and carry on living. I was struggling with a very bad episode of depression—the kind that comes with such crushing, completely debilitating fatigue that it’s nearly impossible to get out of bed.
To me, dogs are the embodiment of joy—there are few things I enjoy more than watching dogs play. Their ability to be completely in the now is a great reminder to be present; they are absolute masters of being here, now. I believe that this is part of their mission: To remind us that we do not have an infinite amount of time in this life, and that the ticking of the clock is steady, relentless, and unbeatable. It’s always cause for sadness for me when I notice the “senior slowdown” in one of my dogs—the increasing amount of white hair on the face, cloudiness in the eyes, changes in mobility, and time spent in deep sleep. They are all signals that things are winding down, and soon I will no longer have this loving presence in my life.
Because my attachment to my dogs is as deep as it is to humans who are dear to me (and in most cases, actually deeper) the death of one of my dogs is always cause for massive heartbreak and grief. Having my “heart dog” Titus put to sleep caused me nearly as much emotional pain and grief as my father’s death did—and I was close to my dad. It’s been more than six years since Titus was put to sleep, and I still cannot look at pictures of him, think too much about him, or talk about him without an immediate surge of grief and welling of tears in my eyes. My dogs are the chosen family members I spend each day with; they are there for me through thick and thin. When I look into their eyes, I see only love, never judgment nor criticism. I look at it like this: All the love and joy a dog has given me throughout our years together gets compressed into an equivalent amount of grief and sadness when that dog dies. It’s kind of like the difference between doing a long, slow, uphill climb—the kind of gradual hill that you barely even register, and can only really see how high you’ve gotten when you’re further along the path—and a short, steep hill, where you have to work much harder and quicker, and are huffing and puffing by the time you reach the summit. Chronic love, acute grief.
I’ve been lucky that most of my dogs have lived relatively long lives. I was actually spared having to make The Decision for my first two. If you’re a pet owner, you know the decision I’m talking about. Thanks to modern veterinary medicine, we have the means to give our pets a painless, easy death, and I believe that as pet owners (or, if you prefer, guardians), it is our responsibility to do so. It is the final act of love we can give the pets we are in partnership with. I’ve had to make The Decision four times, and it’s been excruciating every time. My brain knows that it’s better to do this sooner rather than later, before pain and suffering become too great. But, my heart always lags behind in part because I know how much I’m going to miss them, and I want just a little more time.
Teddy, my first Boston Terrier, died in his sleep at age nine probably due to complications from the epilepsy he’d had since puppyhood. Lucy, my second Boston, died on the operating table during an acute episode of pancreatitis, at 10. Thayrone, my Rhodesian Ridgeback, was the first dog I had to put to sleep. He had topped out at about 100 pounds, but degenerative myelopathy, kind of like multiple sclerosis, had caused so much muscle wasting and atrophy of his hind end that he was only 75 pounds when put to sleep at 11. His regular vet came to my house and did the procedure on my bed—Thayrone’s absolute favorite place in the house. We found out about Lap of Love, a nationwide network of veterinarians who specialize in palliative care and in-home euthanasia, when we discovered that Titus, my 11-year-old boxer/terrier mix, had a massive, inoperable tumor over his kidneys. With assistance from a Lap of Love veterinarian, Titus had a very peaceful passing on a dog bed in my living room. Teeka, my 13-year-old Boston/pug mix, had degenerative disc disease which caused increasingly acute bouts of pain and semi-paralysis that eventually were uncontrollable even with mega doses of steroids and painkillers. This was during Covid times, so the Lap of Love vet came to our backyard and put Teeka to sleep on my lap.
Last summer, it became clear that we were approaching The Decision time with Lady, our 13-year-old beagle. She was effectively deaf, on her way to being blind, and was developing the equivalent of doggie dementia; she had also started having increasing amounts of potty accidents (including pooping in her sleep on my bed). The massive cyst that suddenly appeared on her left flank in a place that would have been very difficult to bandage and manage during healing was the tipping point. The wait time for both a Lap of Love appointment, and for our regular vet to do an in-home euthanasia, was longer than we wanted to wait given the problems the cyst was causing, so we made an appointment with our regular vet to do the euthanasia there. Lady hated riding in the car, and we live very close to our vet’s office now, so on a beautiful July morning, we walked to the vet’s office, then sat on the floor with her one last time. It was as peaceful as possible given the setting.
I think many of us, if we think about death at all, believe that the ideal death is dying in your sleep—just slip away during the night, easy-peasy (the ultimate Irish goodbye!). Most of us are not that lucky, though, and this kind of peaceful, intervention-free passing is as rare for our pets as it is for us. While still excruciating, it has gotten slightly easier for me to make the decision for euthanasia with each dog, as I’ve been better able with age and wisdom to see clearly what is best for them rather than just focusing on what’s best for me. I now believe it is better to err on the side of “too soon” rather than “too late.” It’s not so much about ending suffering, but about preventing any suffering in the first place.
Robin Grant started her pet sitting company, Peaceable Pets Animal Care, in Ann Arbor in 2004. She moved to Chelsea in 2023, where she continues to provide visits for pets in their homes and provides dog daycare and boarding for a small number of dogs in her home. When she’s not caring for pets, you might find Robin singing in the Ann Arbor area with spark (find them on Facebook at @A2spark), a tight, high-energy four-piece band that plays a wide range of mainly uptempo, mostly happy, highly danceable pop/rock covers. She can be reached at robin@peaceablepets.com, or visit her online at facebook.com/Peaceable Pets.
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Dogs have been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. Their unconditional love has provided a lifeline of emotional support during some very dark times. In the aftermath of a failed relationship and a thoroughly broken heart, being accountable to my dogs, and needing to care for them, literally gave me a reason to get up and carry on living. I was struggling with a very bad episode of depression—the kind that comes with such crushing, completely debilitating fatigue that it’s nearly impossible to get out of bed.