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Aug. 1st, 2013 12:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
girlofpreySo, my dog died on Friday.
It's hard to explain exactly what it was like - I know I don't have to, but I do sort of want to. It was just...knowing it was going to happen beforehand meant I had plenty of time to say goodbye to him and let go. But up until the vet got there, we also had to still be with him and look after him. The vet was meant to be coming at 11 - which we learned at five past eleven, was actually "between 11 and 12" - so I got up at about 9 o'clock to get ready and spend an hour with him before he went. Unfortunately he'd made a bit of a mess of his bed, so my mum had to get it clean as quickly as possible before we needed it, which meant he had nowhere to lay down. He laid on the tile floor in our kitchen, and seemed to get stuck, and when I went over to help him get his back legs back under him, he pushed up with them a little bit for the first time, like we were going to do it together. It was lovely, but also slightly sad.
But when his bed was back and he'd eaten and been out and everything, literally all he wanted to do was lay down, with his head down and everything. I went over and started stroking him, and he didn't even push up into my hand, he just sort of sighed. And that was sort of what he was like most of the time, just sort of tired and wanting to rest. Of course, when I pulled my hand away because my arm hurt he made a bit of noise and nipped at me, trying to get me to stroke him again. But he didn't do much. My dad took a last picture of him on his bed, and it took us all calling him to even get him to lift his head up. And even then he wasn't that fussed, he put it down again pretty soon afterwards.
When the vet came he stood talking to my dad for a while in the garage, and I needed the bathroom, so I missed the part where the vet actually came in. But my mum and dad both said he was really nice, and he was certainly nice when I came back in. Which did really help.
I was fairly unprepared for what it was actually going to be like, to be honest. The only thing I'd ever seen or heard about was when they animals get put to sleep sometimes on soaps. In which case, it's a small needle, a quick injection, and the dog just sort of goes to sleep over the course of a few minutes. Either things have changed drastically since they last did one of those storylines, or they toned it down a lot for the viewing public, or just so they could have a more dramatic, longer scene onscreen. The needle was huge, but maybe that was just because William was fairly big. The vet asked someone, which turned out to be mum (who the previous night had said she might not stay in the room for the moment he went), to just sort of keep his head occupied while he got the needle in. William did notice it, but it didn't seem to be painful for him, and my mum distracted him by giving him ginger biscuits, which to be honest was probably the best last few moments she could have given him. And then after a moment the vet said "he should start to relax for you now" - and William just sort of slumped down. His eyes never closed, and he went down, and that was just it, he was gone. It was SO quick. And that moment was the one that was traumatic, if any - not just watching something go from being alive to being dead, but that feeling that he was beyond us, that we couldn't help him anymore, or get any response or affection or anything back from him anymore. And we couldn't change our minds about the decision, in case we wanted to, which I didn't really. But to not have the choice anymore was...hard. But you know, we had a week to prepare for that moment, and I think no matter what happens it would always have been hard. Because you always have that nagging worry that you could have done something better, or something else, and you always get to a point where you can't do anything about it anymore. So yeah, it was hard. But I also didn't want to leave William alone in his final moments, and that was more important to me, even if I'd known what it was going to be like, I think.
Me and mum basically sobbed like children around his bed, and my dad was behind us, but I heard him make some sort of sound. The vet, again, was nice enough to just leave us to it. After we'd calmed down, a bit, we stayed with the body for a few moments and said goodbye. After that mum and I both felt like we couldn't watch his body being taken away, so we went in the room. Now I wonder if it might not have helped to see that, because I know when my grandma was buried, it did give me a sense of closure to see her coffin in the grave, and know she was down there and nowhere else, not in her house, not in some hospital somewhere. That she was physically - as physically as she still was - down there. But at the time, on Friday, I didn't feel like I could handle it. So it was probably for the best.
We spent the next hour or so just sat around, talking about it, and William, and crying. To be honest, my mum sort of did my head in a bit - when he went, she was sat there crying and asking "is this horrible?", like she genuinely wanted us to answer it. And after that, every now and then, she kept asking us, and me, if we'd done the right thing. Like I was supposed to say no after we'd arranged to have our dog put down. She said in that really anxious, needing-reassurance way, and I didn't know what to say to her, because I was and am in no shape to be a support for her. I kept saying - independent of that - "we did the right thing, I think", because my dog had just died and it's hard to be completely sure of anything at a time like that, as though I know objectively and completely that we did the right thing. But she kept picking me up on the way I kept adding "I think", and it was a little unbelievable. I did say something to her about it, and she dropped it at least. But, well. It was the opposite of comforting at the time.
Anyway. After about an hour, my dad had to go back to work, and my mum had to go to a nail appointment. They'd tried to get a later appointment with the vet, for a time that was more convenient, but Friday at 11 was apparently the only one they had for weeks. And life does go on. I was in a funny mood, like I didn't want to run off and do a bunch of other things like I didn't care, but I didn't want to dwell on it either. Mostly I played video games and watched things to take my mind off it, and occasionally had to stop for a bit so I could cry. And I talked to my parents - mostly my mum - about it a lot, whenever I was feeling really sad or upset.
Now it's almost coming in waves - the first day was hard, just getting over what had happened. But - as I suspected - a couple of days later, when I'd got over the adrenaline of actually having him put to sleep and the need to hold it together, it hit me again and deeper when I started absently forgetting it had happened and wondering where he was for a moment, before I realised. His bed was behind our kitchen door, which was the only one I had a key to when mum and dad were out, and the first time I had to come in through there and not push him out (gently) of the way so I could get in was odd. And on Sunday we went out for lunch, and when we got back into the garage I realised it still faintly smelled of him. But he was a part of our life, of this house, for 14 years, so it was probably never going to be easy.
I am fine, genuinely. It just keeps hitting me. And I do wonder, a little, if we did the right thing, just because you do I think. And because it's difficult reconciling the fact that I miss him with the fact that we/I arranged to have him put down. But I know that people who don't have their pets put down when they're old wonder if they did the right thing too, and friends of my mum who felt like they had their pets put down too late really regret not doing it sooner too. And the vet we saw last week really didn't need us to say a lot to him before he agreed that putting him down might be the best thing for him. I just have to keep remembering that he was 14 and a half, that none of his various ailments were going to get better and a lot of them seemed to be getting worse, and that one way or another, in a few weeks we would have been going on holiday, and we had nowhere to send him but a kennel where he had various problems in the past. Which would have been worse. Which would have been genuinely cruel, I think. And if he'd died there, that would have awful. So we made the decision for William's sake, and if it's hard now, it's because we loved him. If anything, I think that picture dad took before the vet came really helped, because he just looks so tired in it, and uninterested, and frail. We did the right thing for him. I think.
If anything, I just feel bad for the way he lived before then. This is probably go to sound awful, but the fact is, he never got walked. Not even long before he got ill. And dad wouldn't let him in the living room after we got a new suite, many years ago, because he didn't want William getting fur on the couch. I mean, no-one really mistreated him I don't think, but I don't think we exactly did right by him either. To be honest, it was always a funny situation with William, because to begin with, when I was 9 - an unbearably long time ago now - we had a little Bichon Frise, Pepe, a little toy dog really. But he died when he was 5, and my sister was so upset that my grandma offered to buy her a new dog, any pedigree, for her birthday. And I always heard that my sister wanted a Weimaraner, but talking with my mum recently suggests dad might have had a bit to do with the decision too, but either way we ended up with William. Who was much bigger than Pepe, and a bit more energetic, and harder to handle on a lead. So really he was my sister's dog, and she was the one who wanted him. But then in the next few years she was moving out, and having kids. She had him at her new house for a bit, but apparently she got worried when she was pregnant with my MN about having him around a newborn baby, and from what I could tell her partner didn't like him that much either.
So mum and dad got him back. And I was at University, and then I moved back to Nottingham. And my dad really wasn't bothered about him, and my mum was so busy with my sister and her kids she never had time to do much with him either, and her bad back meant it wasn't a good idea taking him out on her own anyway. So he basically lived in the kitchen. When I came home and started getting really fond of him, I genuinely thought about taking him out for walks off my own back. But the fact was, taking him out pretty much always meant clearing up after him, and with the OCD and germphobia, I knew I couldn't do that. So yeah, he basically stayed in the kitchen, and sometimes the garage, except when he went out to do his business, and sometimes I let him come out into the garden with me. And I do feel guilty about that. But there wasn't much I could do about it. Dad wouldn't have listened, mum was too busy, and I couldn't do it myself. My mum brought up the idea - as I knew she would - that we could possibly get another dog, at some point, and I just had to tell her that I wouldn't want to have another dog living in that situation. I would love another dog, but I don't know if another dog would love it here.
Anyway. Last night I was looking at pictures we have of William on holidays with us when he was 3 or so, and again, the difference between how well he looked there and how he looked at the end was shocking. And he did have some good times with us at least. So I am fine. It's just hard letting go.
I honestly meant to write a few words about this, just to give a bit of closure to it really, but apparently all this needed to come out. If anyone has stuck with this post this long, then I commend you for it I guess. I also didn't expect to cry while writing it, but I did. He was a lovely dog. I took his collar off for the last week or so, since he probably wasn't going to run off anywhere and it was so hot, and it always seemed unbearable to me to have a piece of clothing on that you could never take off. So when the vet took his body away we were left with it, and I asked my parents if we could bury it in the garden, and say goodbye to him again there. So we'll probably be doing that some time this week. And I'll probably be crying again.
It seems ridiculous to have this much emotion for an animal, in some ways. But William was so soft and loyal, and for me personally probably one of the few uncomplicated relationships I had. Even though I did feel bad about how we treated him a lot of the time. But we did have him for 14 years. He was a really good dog. And I'm going to miss him. I'm missing him already.
And what I WASN'T expecting this week was while I was listening to a Welcome To Night Vale podcast, partly to take my mind of all the stuff that had happened with the dog, for there to suddenly be a line about a woman putting her "3 year old Weimaraner to sleep", for fairly shallow reasons. That hit a little close to home. These things come to try us, I suppose.
It's hard to explain exactly what it was like - I know I don't have to, but I do sort of want to. It was just...knowing it was going to happen beforehand meant I had plenty of time to say goodbye to him and let go. But up until the vet got there, we also had to still be with him and look after him. The vet was meant to be coming at 11 - which we learned at five past eleven, was actually "between 11 and 12" - so I got up at about 9 o'clock to get ready and spend an hour with him before he went. Unfortunately he'd made a bit of a mess of his bed, so my mum had to get it clean as quickly as possible before we needed it, which meant he had nowhere to lay down. He laid on the tile floor in our kitchen, and seemed to get stuck, and when I went over to help him get his back legs back under him, he pushed up with them a little bit for the first time, like we were going to do it together. It was lovely, but also slightly sad.
But when his bed was back and he'd eaten and been out and everything, literally all he wanted to do was lay down, with his head down and everything. I went over and started stroking him, and he didn't even push up into my hand, he just sort of sighed. And that was sort of what he was like most of the time, just sort of tired and wanting to rest. Of course, when I pulled my hand away because my arm hurt he made a bit of noise and nipped at me, trying to get me to stroke him again. But he didn't do much. My dad took a last picture of him on his bed, and it took us all calling him to even get him to lift his head up. And even then he wasn't that fussed, he put it down again pretty soon afterwards.
When the vet came he stood talking to my dad for a while in the garage, and I needed the bathroom, so I missed the part where the vet actually came in. But my mum and dad both said he was really nice, and he was certainly nice when I came back in. Which did really help.
I was fairly unprepared for what it was actually going to be like, to be honest. The only thing I'd ever seen or heard about was when they animals get put to sleep sometimes on soaps. In which case, it's a small needle, a quick injection, and the dog just sort of goes to sleep over the course of a few minutes. Either things have changed drastically since they last did one of those storylines, or they toned it down a lot for the viewing public, or just so they could have a more dramatic, longer scene onscreen. The needle was huge, but maybe that was just because William was fairly big. The vet asked someone, which turned out to be mum (who the previous night had said she might not stay in the room for the moment he went), to just sort of keep his head occupied while he got the needle in. William did notice it, but it didn't seem to be painful for him, and my mum distracted him by giving him ginger biscuits, which to be honest was probably the best last few moments she could have given him. And then after a moment the vet said "he should start to relax for you now" - and William just sort of slumped down. His eyes never closed, and he went down, and that was just it, he was gone. It was SO quick. And that moment was the one that was traumatic, if any - not just watching something go from being alive to being dead, but that feeling that he was beyond us, that we couldn't help him anymore, or get any response or affection or anything back from him anymore. And we couldn't change our minds about the decision, in case we wanted to, which I didn't really. But to not have the choice anymore was...hard. But you know, we had a week to prepare for that moment, and I think no matter what happens it would always have been hard. Because you always have that nagging worry that you could have done something better, or something else, and you always get to a point where you can't do anything about it anymore. So yeah, it was hard. But I also didn't want to leave William alone in his final moments, and that was more important to me, even if I'd known what it was going to be like, I think.
Me and mum basically sobbed like children around his bed, and my dad was behind us, but I heard him make some sort of sound. The vet, again, was nice enough to just leave us to it. After we'd calmed down, a bit, we stayed with the body for a few moments and said goodbye. After that mum and I both felt like we couldn't watch his body being taken away, so we went in the room. Now I wonder if it might not have helped to see that, because I know when my grandma was buried, it did give me a sense of closure to see her coffin in the grave, and know she was down there and nowhere else, not in her house, not in some hospital somewhere. That she was physically - as physically as she still was - down there. But at the time, on Friday, I didn't feel like I could handle it. So it was probably for the best.
We spent the next hour or so just sat around, talking about it, and William, and crying. To be honest, my mum sort of did my head in a bit - when he went, she was sat there crying and asking "is this horrible?", like she genuinely wanted us to answer it. And after that, every now and then, she kept asking us, and me, if we'd done the right thing. Like I was supposed to say no after we'd arranged to have our dog put down. She said in that really anxious, needing-reassurance way, and I didn't know what to say to her, because I was and am in no shape to be a support for her. I kept saying - independent of that - "we did the right thing, I think", because my dog had just died and it's hard to be completely sure of anything at a time like that, as though I know objectively and completely that we did the right thing. But she kept picking me up on the way I kept adding "I think", and it was a little unbelievable. I did say something to her about it, and she dropped it at least. But, well. It was the opposite of comforting at the time.
Anyway. After about an hour, my dad had to go back to work, and my mum had to go to a nail appointment. They'd tried to get a later appointment with the vet, for a time that was more convenient, but Friday at 11 was apparently the only one they had for weeks. And life does go on. I was in a funny mood, like I didn't want to run off and do a bunch of other things like I didn't care, but I didn't want to dwell on it either. Mostly I played video games and watched things to take my mind off it, and occasionally had to stop for a bit so I could cry. And I talked to my parents - mostly my mum - about it a lot, whenever I was feeling really sad or upset.
Now it's almost coming in waves - the first day was hard, just getting over what had happened. But - as I suspected - a couple of days later, when I'd got over the adrenaline of actually having him put to sleep and the need to hold it together, it hit me again and deeper when I started absently forgetting it had happened and wondering where he was for a moment, before I realised. His bed was behind our kitchen door, which was the only one I had a key to when mum and dad were out, and the first time I had to come in through there and not push him out (gently) of the way so I could get in was odd. And on Sunday we went out for lunch, and when we got back into the garage I realised it still faintly smelled of him. But he was a part of our life, of this house, for 14 years, so it was probably never going to be easy.
I am fine, genuinely. It just keeps hitting me. And I do wonder, a little, if we did the right thing, just because you do I think. And because it's difficult reconciling the fact that I miss him with the fact that we/I arranged to have him put down. But I know that people who don't have their pets put down when they're old wonder if they did the right thing too, and friends of my mum who felt like they had their pets put down too late really regret not doing it sooner too. And the vet we saw last week really didn't need us to say a lot to him before he agreed that putting him down might be the best thing for him. I just have to keep remembering that he was 14 and a half, that none of his various ailments were going to get better and a lot of them seemed to be getting worse, and that one way or another, in a few weeks we would have been going on holiday, and we had nowhere to send him but a kennel where he had various problems in the past. Which would have been worse. Which would have been genuinely cruel, I think. And if he'd died there, that would have awful. So we made the decision for William's sake, and if it's hard now, it's because we loved him. If anything, I think that picture dad took before the vet came really helped, because he just looks so tired in it, and uninterested, and frail. We did the right thing for him. I think.
If anything, I just feel bad for the way he lived before then. This is probably go to sound awful, but the fact is, he never got walked. Not even long before he got ill. And dad wouldn't let him in the living room after we got a new suite, many years ago, because he didn't want William getting fur on the couch. I mean, no-one really mistreated him I don't think, but I don't think we exactly did right by him either. To be honest, it was always a funny situation with William, because to begin with, when I was 9 - an unbearably long time ago now - we had a little Bichon Frise, Pepe, a little toy dog really. But he died when he was 5, and my sister was so upset that my grandma offered to buy her a new dog, any pedigree, for her birthday. And I always heard that my sister wanted a Weimaraner, but talking with my mum recently suggests dad might have had a bit to do with the decision too, but either way we ended up with William. Who was much bigger than Pepe, and a bit more energetic, and harder to handle on a lead. So really he was my sister's dog, and she was the one who wanted him. But then in the next few years she was moving out, and having kids. She had him at her new house for a bit, but apparently she got worried when she was pregnant with my MN about having him around a newborn baby, and from what I could tell her partner didn't like him that much either.
So mum and dad got him back. And I was at University, and then I moved back to Nottingham. And my dad really wasn't bothered about him, and my mum was so busy with my sister and her kids she never had time to do much with him either, and her bad back meant it wasn't a good idea taking him out on her own anyway. So he basically lived in the kitchen. When I came home and started getting really fond of him, I genuinely thought about taking him out for walks off my own back. But the fact was, taking him out pretty much always meant clearing up after him, and with the OCD and germphobia, I knew I couldn't do that. So yeah, he basically stayed in the kitchen, and sometimes the garage, except when he went out to do his business, and sometimes I let him come out into the garden with me. And I do feel guilty about that. But there wasn't much I could do about it. Dad wouldn't have listened, mum was too busy, and I couldn't do it myself. My mum brought up the idea - as I knew she would - that we could possibly get another dog, at some point, and I just had to tell her that I wouldn't want to have another dog living in that situation. I would love another dog, but I don't know if another dog would love it here.
Anyway. Last night I was looking at pictures we have of William on holidays with us when he was 3 or so, and again, the difference between how well he looked there and how he looked at the end was shocking. And he did have some good times with us at least. So I am fine. It's just hard letting go.
I honestly meant to write a few words about this, just to give a bit of closure to it really, but apparently all this needed to come out. If anyone has stuck with this post this long, then I commend you for it I guess. I also didn't expect to cry while writing it, but I did. He was a lovely dog. I took his collar off for the last week or so, since he probably wasn't going to run off anywhere and it was so hot, and it always seemed unbearable to me to have a piece of clothing on that you could never take off. So when the vet took his body away we were left with it, and I asked my parents if we could bury it in the garden, and say goodbye to him again there. So we'll probably be doing that some time this week. And I'll probably be crying again.
It seems ridiculous to have this much emotion for an animal, in some ways. But William was so soft and loyal, and for me personally probably one of the few uncomplicated relationships I had. Even though I did feel bad about how we treated him a lot of the time. But we did have him for 14 years. He was a really good dog. And I'm going to miss him. I'm missing him already.
And what I WASN'T expecting this week was while I was listening to a Welcome To Night Vale podcast, partly to take my mind of all the stuff that had happened with the dog, for there to suddenly be a line about a woman putting her "3 year old Weimaraner to sleep", for fairly shallow reasons. That hit a little close to home. These things come to try us, I suppose.
