How Do I Know?

How Do I Know?

Some Thoughts for Pet-Lovers

By Elisa Morgan

We adopted Mia, a rough coat Jack Russell Terrier, when she was nine years old. Her “parents” had both passed away and she needed to be rehomed. We’d lost our Coach and we needed a dog. (It had come to the point where I was sleeping with one of his old stuffed toys. Oh. My.)

Mia filled our days with “joy barks” which she vocalized while chasing a tennis ball, spunky kisses and general happiness. Tough on the outside and mushy within, she matched my own personality in some ways. She enjoyed good health except for a repetitive UTI which we treated with meds – and a pancreatic condition – which we treated with meds and a few other things – which we treated with meds. When suddenly she was twelve, we noticed some changes with her sleeping more, walking less and slowly losing weight. At thirteen she was blind and deaf and spent whole minutes staring into space in confusion.

Oh. My.

Each morning she would stare in my direction until I scooped her up and cuddled her like a baby under my chin. After twenty minutes or so, she’d settle in on her blanket for the morning, snoozing happily. It seemed. But was she? Happy?

Evan and I began to wonder. 

One day Mia frantically rubbed her muzzle along the carpet, sneezing and scratching. Off and on for hours. And then again that afternoon and evening. And the next day. I called the vet, took her in and was told it was either an allergy or an abscess (which would be untreatable at her advanced age). As I gathered her leash to head home, the doctor looked at me and said, “You know, you’re really providing hospice care for her now.”

Hospice care. Really?

How do you know it’s time to let your pet go? Or rather, how do you know when it’s time to help your pet go? I know from past pets that helping a pet die is the last loving act we can do for them as they most often cannot make that decision for themselves.

I thought of the basic advice I’d followed in the past: when your pet cannot do two of three things they most love (take walks, play with a toy, eat), it’s time.

Then there’s the reality of clear medical symptoms: when they can’t walk on their own, stop eating or have ongoing accidents in the house.

But what about when they are struggling with old age?

I called my brother, a long-time dog owner. He listened to my concerns, agreed that I needed to make a decision for Mia and then asked a question I hadn’t considered: Was I aware that I couldn’t fix her condition - that she is not going to get better?

Whoa. My answers to that question led me to call and make a final appointment. My vet reached across the phone line and said, “That sounds like a loving and kind decision,” confirming what my heart was having trouble embracing.

It’s never easy to make this last loving decision for your furry loved one. And I’m no expert and am not trying to offer proven veterinary advice. But my recent journey has informed me in some ways I wanted to share. (I realize some of you are not pet aficionados and may not be able to receive this…but many are.)

When Evan and I entered the “comfort room” the next day, we found a cushy bed on the floor, covered with a blanket that was extremely familiar to us. Inscribed with the words LOVE all over it, we recognized it as the very blanket that had comforted our former dog, Coach, years before and that we’d donated to the practice after his death. The vet tech hadn’t known. But God did and this tender gesture soothed our hearts.

While Evan and I wiped away tears, Mia ate almost a whole bag of fatty treats – which she’d been denied on her low-fat diet for most of her life. Tummy filled and happy, she settled in my arms as she received the sedative that would calm her. Then I gently laid her on Coach’s blanket for her to receive her final shot. Beneath the folds of LOVE, I placed my hand on her heart and felt it stop the second the medication was administered. She was at peace.

On the way home, we looked up through the windshield to see a “God-Sky.” Rays of sparkling sun burst through gray/blue tinged clouds. Another God Comfort moment.

In the aftermath, I still have a hole in my heart and I know I will for a long time. Like always. I borrowed a large, weighty “stuffie” from my grandson and its presence in my arms helps some. I’m wearing my “Mia Necklace” of a Jack Russell that I found at a street fair and my doggie shirt, both in memoriam. A friend sent me a comfort of fluffy slippers and I walk around in them feeling like Mia is on my feet.

While Evan wants to wait a while and enjoy our “freedom” my fingers itch to search the web for another dog. But I won’t move too quickly because I know I need to give this experience the time it requires.

Thank you, Mia, for the love lessons you taught us. About how to cherish and how to love well in the end by helping to let go. And thank you God for the gift of comfort you provide in the process of pain and its aftermath.

Elisa Morgan is the author of Fruitful Living. She is the cohost of the podcast, God Hears Her. She is also the cohost of Discover the Word and contributor to Our Daily Bread. Her other books include Christmas Changes Everything, You are Not Alone, When We Pray Like Jesus, Hello, Beauty Full, and The Beauty of Broken. Connect with Elisa @elisamorganauthor on Facebook and Instagram.