We adopted Reece on May 17, 2008, when she was only four months old. We said goodbye on December 23, 2020, when she was less a month away from turning 13.
In her final days, she alternated between days of lethargy and her usual energy levels. That’s why it was so hard to know something was really wrong. One day, she’d refuse to play or interact with us. The next day, she was her normal self.
On Wednesday, she was acting normally until just after lunchtime. Then things went quickly downhill. We knew, this time, that it wasn’t just some passing illness. When she refused to eat even her very favorite food … when she went outside and laid down in the grass and refused to get up. She had to be carried back inside.
Our regular vet had closed for the holidays. My husband, L, took her to the emergency vet, which is, thankfully, near our house. I stayed home with our other dog.
Maybe an hour later … less … he called me. They found bleeding in her stomach and a mass that was very likely cancer. Nothing they could do. Surgery or chemo would only extend her life a few months.
He came back to the house to pick me up and take me back. When they brought Reece in, she already had the catheter taped to her leg — what they would use to administer euthanasia. She was more alert when she came in to see us than she had been for most of the afternoon. They told us we could take as much time as we needed, and to let them know when we’re ready.
Who is ever ready for this?
We spent a few private minutes with her. She was more focused on L than she was on me. I’m not sure my presence registered much with her at all. I also remember the receptionists talking and laughing outside the door, which was awful for me. L couldn’t tell them we were ready, so I had to do it. We weren’t ready, of course. But best to get it over with and not prolong everyone’s misery.
A few minutes later, the veterinarian came in. I don’t even remember her name. Reece wagged her tail when the vet came in and gave her a few kisses when she crouched down to Reece’s level. She explained step by step what she was going to do, since we had never gone through this before.
Within minutes, it was done. Reece was breathing. And then she simply wasn’t. I asked about next steps. L apparently had already discussed cremation with her. She explained that they would call us when the ashes were ready, and we’d get a clay imprint of her paw. She asked us if we wanted a stamped paw print on paper to take home with us that night, but I was numb with shock and just wanted to leave immediately.
It took a while for the tears to come. But they flowed most of the day on the 24th.
I find it odd that I’m not having those moments other people speak about. Where they turn around and expect their pet to be there. When they forget for just a second and call their pet’s name. I wake up each morning, and the weight of her absence presses on me immediately. The house is too quiet.
Our other dog is grieving, too. He still looks back toward the house when we let him outside, expecting her to follow him. In his grief and confusion, he hasn’t eaten much (very unusual for him, since he’s very food motivated). And he’s been sleeping more than usual.
Nighttime is the hardest for me. As I lie in bed trying to drift off to sleep, I keep reliving those moments in the veterinarian’s office over and over. Being alone with my thoughts right now is a pretty terrible thing.
Tomorrow, when I return to my home office to go back to work, she won’t be with me. Reece always spent the day in my office during my work hours. We have a dog bed up there for her, and I have a chair that folds out into a lounge/bed, which she also used.
Not having her quiet presence there to keep me company when I work is going to hurt a lot.