This is my dog, Blitz, wearing a homemade friendship bracelet:
I imagine people are going to see the dog picture and the fact that the question is about crying and go “Oh shit, does the dog die? I don’t want to read about that. I can’t handle that.”
I feel it’s my duty to say that yes, the dog does die in the end. Now you can read this story and not even feel stressed and uncertain— I’ve already spoiled the ending.
We got Blitz when I was pretty young; I honestly don’t remember a time without him. He was a German Shepherd mix, and we always said that he was part German Shepherd and part angel.
It’s true.
He was incredibly tolerant of all manners of hijinks and shenanigans:
This dog refused to let people be upset. His solution to seeing someone cry was to lie on top of them and lick them until they stopped. If this failed to stop the crying, he would jump off their lap, jump back up and repeat until it worked.
It always did. You can’t be sad when you have a German Shepherd on your lap.
He was my mom’s faithful companion. He followed her around everywhere in the house, making sure she was always safe (or whatever his concern was). I always knew where my mom was in the house because I could hear Blitz’s little footsteps right behind her.
Last summer, I’d begun taking the old man for daily walks. We’d go for about an hour every morning— even though Blitz was 11, he had no issue jogging the entire way. He loved the activity.
At this point, Blitz was on a lot of medication; he had joint issues and lots of other pains of old age. He was in good shape otherwise, though, so the vets said they’d rather medicate him than put him down.
He was moving a little slower than before, but he didn’t seem to be in any pain or have any other issues.
In the middle of the summer, I stopped walking him. I’d hurt my back, so I planned to take a week or so off to recover before we took off again. Blitz seemed indifferent; he enjoyed napping just as much as he enjoyed walks. It didn’t matter much to him either way.
The week I didn’t walk him, he took to napping outside. He’d always enjoyed our backyard, but it was different. He would be out there from sunrise to sunset, only coming inside to eat or go to bed for the night. It was unusual, but not alarming.
He’s a dog. They love grass.
A few days into our walking break, my mom asked me to take Blitz into the vet. He needed a checkup for all the medications he was on; it wasn’t unusual.
I went outside and found Blitz passed out in the grass, under his favorite tree. He looked so content. I felt bad waking him up.
I shook his collar and shouted his name. He lifted his head to face me, his ears poking upward. He slowly made his way to his feet and trotted over to me, with his fluffy tail wagging. He licked me on the face and waited eagerly for me to put on his leash.
I helped him into my car and we headed off to the vet.
I brought him inside and handed his leash to one of the vet techs. I patted his head one last time and headed home.
It was nothing unusual.
We’d gone to the vet like this hundreds of times.
It was nothing unusual.
It was the afternoon when my mom called. I had my music blasting and all of the windows down on my car as I carefully cleaned every inch of it. My dad was outside doing yard work.
Nothing unusual.
I answered my phone and heard sobs. My mom wasn’t coherent. My mom was one of the most emotionally-controlled people I knew; she rarely cried at anything. She was logical. Facts. Never emotions.
Through her tears and hiccups I heard:
“The vet just called. Blitz has some cancer, and… and they said that, we’d have to take him to Colorado to get help and even then they probably couldn’t do anything and… and we have to put him down. They think we should put him down.”
I dropped my rag.
“When? When do we have to put him down?” I thought they planned these things out. I thought you had time to bring your dog home and hug him and throw his toys for him and take him on one last walk.
I thought he got to say goodbye to his little brother, a dog who couldn’t possibly understand that his older brother Blitz had gone to the vet to visit and had never come home.
I thought we got time.
“Today. Right now. Get here right now.”
I threw everything down and screamed at my dad through my tears.
“We have to get to the vet. Blitz isn’t going to make it and we need to get there right now.”
My dad burst into tears and groped his pockets for his keys. I’ve never sped anywhere so quickly.
We went inside the vet’s office and neither of us had the words to tell the receptionist why we were there. Luckily the vets saw us and silently led us to the back room.
Blitz ran up to us with a wagging tail, as if nothing were amiss.
We all crumbled into various stages of the grieving process.
My dad put his face to the wall and repeated in a choked voice, “It’s not time. It’s not fair. Why do we deserve this? It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not his time yet.” He kept one hand on Blitz as if to remind himself that his time wasn’t up quite yet.
My mom petted his face and consoled him, as a way of consoling herself. “You had a great life. You were the best dog ever and we’re so lucky we got to have you. You’re going to be out of pain now and you’ll be so happy. This is the best thing for you. We love you. I love you, Blitz. We’re gonna miss you.”
I tried to smile but found it pushed more tears out of my eyes than the alternative. I took pictures— countless pictures— as a way of holding on. Blitz would stay alive in still photos of his last minutes. He would never die. He would never be forgotten.
I talked to him. I thanked him for being such a great dog. I hugged him. I kissed him. I secretly asked him not to go.
My mom was the one who announced it was time.
The vets came in and helped him lie down on a towel. They soothed him, talked to him, calmed him down. My dad sat on one side of him, my mom on the other. I crouched in between, just across from the vet.
There are two shots involved in letting your dog rest.
The first puts him to sleep; the second stops the heart.
The vet talked us through everything, though I only vaguely remember what was said. I wasn’t really listening. I was still saying goodbye.
The first shot was traumatic for us. Blitz’s head was still in the air when it was administered, so his head abruptly found its way to the floor after the shot.
Blood seeped out of his nose, and onto the carpet.
It was at this point that I stood, and turned facing the desk behind us. I was crying so hard that I was shaking. I couldn’t watch.
I heard my mom behind me.
“Oh my god. Oh my god, he’s bleeding. Oh my god, I never want to see this again. This is horrifying. This is awful. I… Why? Why is he bleeding? Why?”
The vet explained that it was common and apologized for not warning us.
I didn’t care.
The second shot was administered, and I didn’t look.
“I’m so sorry. Take as long as you need.” The door shut.
We were alone.
I turned around.
Blitz’s nose was in a small pool of blood. He wasn’t moving. The familiar rise and fall of his chest; the twitch of his back legs; the way his eyes flittered while he slept.
It was unusual.
He had never been so still.
My eyes found a new pool of tears and unleashed them down my face as I walked past my dog for the very last time. My dad patted his leg.
“See you later, bud.”
I cried the whole way home. I cried as I got home and tried to finish cleaning my car. I gave up.
I cried as I tried to explain to Beauregard why he should stop barking at the door and wagging his tail. His brother wasn’t coming home.
I cried that night. I cried a few times every night for the next few weeks.
I cried when I saw his dog house— now abandoned in the backyard.
I’d started to get better, but found myself crying again when the vet clinic gifted us a custom urn for Blitz’s ashes.
I cried again when I wrote this answer.
The pain of losing a pet is one of the worst, I think. Pets are so innocent. They don’t understand what it is they’re going through.
I hope Blitz is up in some dog heaven, and that he has endless feet to lick and receives endless butt scratches and that he has the biggest, nicest tree to lie underneath.
If anyone deserves it, he does.
I’m including an extra puppy picture of a dog who is 100% alive and happy, because this shouldn’t end on such a sad note.
This is Banjo, the puppy we got after Blitz passed. He’s a chihuahua/dachshund and he’s an angel.
Our younger dog, Beauregard, passed away today. I’m reliving the emotional roller coaster all over again.
Take care, buddy. I miss you already.
Read other answers by Jordan Yates on Quora:
- When was the first time you felt discriminated against because you were female?
- When did you realize you were an adult?
- If you could recommend anything to me, what would it be?
from Quora http://ift.tt/2iymJRO
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