Oh, hi there, Ghost. I haven’t published anything in a while, I know. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been writing a ton, but it’s either been a load of navel-gazing horseshit, OR…well, no, it’s just navel-gazing horseshit.

But this subject is relatable, and I think I will publish this one, not that anyone really reads this stuff anyway. But maybe someone will, and maybe they will understand, or will recognize their own journey in mine. Maybe they’ll feel a little less alone in it, if they are alone.

So let me start by saying that man, oh man, this end-of-life journey with my 16 year old Boston Terrier, Eden, is one WILD ride.

Almost two years ago I posted a little video on Instagram where I was happily rolling kibble on the kitchen floor for Eden, who was joyfully pouncing and chasing the little nuggets around the kitchen floor. In the caption, I noted her loss of bladder control, which had been going on for some time at that point (the kitchen was a sea of pee pads because that was her chosen pee spot in that apartment). I mentioned her new aversion to the treats she’s loved her whole life, the fact that I carry her outside every couple of hours, and that she no longer voluntarily eats kibble, hence the rolling game.

That seems like a lifetime ago, and yet here we are. Eden still lives. She’s 16 now, and the trips outside have been increased to every hour when she’s not sleeping, and she still pees on the floor. My second bedroom is the new sea of pee pads, her most often chosen spot, but she routinely pees indoors in other spots, mostly on rugs, even when she’s been out within the last hour.

So now I find myself about three years in to geriatric care with my dog. Her bloodwork, taken about 2 months ago and prompted by what was, $1,000 later, inconclusively found to be a potential bout of pancreatitis, reveals nothing seriously wrong beyond a decline in kidney function. We took an X-ray during that visit, and found that her spine is fusing in two places, which accounts for the curvature of her back.

The dry kibble went completely by the wayside some time ago. Since that time, we have been through what feels like endless permutations of kibble-and-wet, wet, and dehydrated, trying desperately to find some food that she wants to eat. The pancreatitis made that even worse. She is now almost totally deaf, and mostly blind, and when she stands in the bathroom and stares at the wall behind the toilet, I don’t know if it’s because she can’t see anymore, or if it’s because there’s some kind of doggie dementia going on.

For some of our fur family members, the end-of-life journey is quick. My dog Jake developed an acute and deadly cancer that made our decision to end his life relatively simple. My dog Cairo had a final seizure and died on my craft room floor right in front of me while I was on the phone with my mom (“Mom, I have to go, there’s something wrong with Roro. *click*……MARCUS!!!!). For others, we become live-in nursemaids in addition to our regular butler duties. My cat Doo’s kidneys failed when he was only 7 years old. For six months, we did subcutaneous fluids that he hated and steroids that revealed a personality we didn’t know. I will never put another animal through that process ever again. We did not have enough information. The vet who handled Doo’s case had the bedside manner of a badger, blamed me for his condition, and gave us just enough information to hang ourselves with. Not once were we told that his condition was terminal.

Live and learn. As Marcus once told me, a couple of thousand dollars in to trying to save our cat Memphis from heart failure, “Vets are in the business of keeping animals alive.”

That phrase stuck with me, because at that time I was once again unknowingly throwing money at a situation that would never resolve itself. Upon being released from the emergency hospital, Memphis spent a couple of more days with us, and then expired in his favorite place in the back yard with no one around. His heart was enlarged, and he would never have recovered. Not once did a vet advise me that he would never recover. Not once did a vet advise me to end his life. I was throwing medicine at a problem that was already a lost cause. I guess I hoped I would have more time with him. I guess I thought I was doing the right thing. What guilt must we live with if we don’t try absolutely everything to keep our friends alive?

I have been fortunate enough to have very honest vets in the past 15 years or so. It pains me greatly to think that a profession I have placed so much trust in over the years would profit from my guilt. I don’t think individual veterinarians are that way, necessarily, but my experience with emergency vets has always been crazy expensive, and, in my opinion, less than honest about my options.

So, I know I said Eden’s bloodwork was pretty good, save for her kidneys losing function. The problems she’s experiencing right now are mostly mechanical, I think, and related to the back problems I referenced above. She doesn’t want to eat. She doesn’t want to walk. She isn’t drinking enough water. She’s losing weight. She looks at me with her one eye, and she tells me she’s done. She is having more bad days than good. She shakes all the time, and not from cold. We do pain meds every 12 hours. We do anti-nausea meds every 24 hours. She eats chicken and rice mixed with nutritionally optimal food, when she actually eats it. I am throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks.

My current vet, Dr. Donnelly, saw Eden this week, and she was candid. She told me about her dog who suffered from liver problems, and how she never forgave herself for waiting too long. My friend Amy just told me the same thing about her dog. Dr. Donnelly offered solutions for us, short term, but the message is pretty clear: I, as Eden’s closest companion, know her best. If I want to avoid the 2 am visit to the Dove Lewis emergency vet clinic because of something catastrophic, and want to avoid my dearest dog having her last moments full of stress and panic in an unfamiliar space, we have to do this soon.

So I’ve decided on next week. But I’m having a really fucking hard time making the call to the in-home euthanasia place. I hate the sentencing of my pup to her end. I hate that the weekend is going to be a litany of “lasts”. I hate it all. I hate it so much.

My dear, sweet friend Hayley, who is a trained professional photographer, is going to come to my apartment Saturday morning and take some photos of Eden. I asked not to be in them, but she is insisting that I’m in some of them. “You’ll regret it if you’re not”, she said. My friend Sarah is coming too, and we’re going to do Eden’s footprint in clay. Then we’re going to brunch.

I talked with Marcus for almost three hours last weekend. The reason was Eden, but the conversation obviously evolved and moved onto other things. In short, he was SO supportive. He’s the absolute best person for me to talk to in these situations, because Marcus is the Occam’s Razor of people. I get wrapped around the axle, and Marcus quietly states facts and offers solutions. He is on board with any decision I make. I know he trusts my judgment, but it really helped to hear him say that he knew I would do the right thing.

So, I have support. And that’s not even counting the beautiful people near and far who I can lean on when the shit hits the fan. Ultimately, we all go through grief by ourselves. We all process the guilt, which is present whether we are “a day too early” or “a day too late”. There is no perfect day. There is only a person, and their pet, and their two hearts.

Thanks for listening, Ghost. This is rough.