Heartbreak and Restoration
By Gay Dunlap
Some weeks ago I found myself once again facing the agonizingly grim task of putting one of my beloved dogs to sleep. If a bitch can be called a lady, Mikaela was that. She never once lost her temper. Sharing her life with me for over 16 years, she was vibrant though steady, strong and healthy. Healthy, that is, save for the arthritis that began to take its toll on her joints in later life. Though her hearing was impaired, her vision never let her down. She seemed to look right through me, her large expressive, black eyes made larger with thick black mascara. When our eyes met, I felt as though she was looking straight into my soul.
I had known for some time that the day was approaching so it was not unexpected. Sixteen years is a very long life in my breed. And, in fact, Mikaela outlived all of the dogs, at least those that had remained in my care over the past 42 years. Still, doesn’t there always reside within us, this little prayer that as the twilight of their years approaches, they will take leave of their own volition? But they seem to hold onto life so tenaciously…
at the same time deep within us, if we but listen, isn’t there some sort of primal knowledge that given the opportunity they would love to simply walk out into the wild and meet with death on their own terms? Our lives and current mores seldom, if ever, allow this to happen. And so it is that we must take on the burden of knowing when the time is right to say goodbye, the sensitivity to read their body language and ability to sense when the going has become too rough for them to bear. It is such a hard call.
In retrospect, looking back over the month proceeding, I wish I had been more insightful and taken the strange behavior of her 11 year-old-daughter, Tilly, as subliminal rather than thinking I was dealing with a medical issue and worrying myself sick over the thought of losing her as well. Tilly had begun occasional teeth chattering that seemed to be slowly escalating. My vet determined that she was having small seizures, akin to petit mal and prescribed Phenobarbital. It seemed to have no effect and the teeth chattering became still more frequent. The Phenobarbital was replaced with an antibiotic thinking that perhaps she had an infection in her mouth that was causing the chattering. No relief. On the days immediately following Mikaela’s death the teeth chattering became almost non-stop. I put her in the car and drove 2 hours to another vet that had been highly recommended. He felt perhaps it was related to her mouth and gums, suggesting that I keep her on the antibiotic a bit longer and that I cook up large soup bones for her to chew on. He sent me home with a mouth spray, which I was to spray on her gums twice a day.
I even resorted to social networking, asking fellow breeders if they had suffered any such similar experience. In this instance at least, the responses convinced me of the futility of such action. I was advised by several that teeth chattering is “Very common and occurs often when bitches are in season or when some interesting smell comes along.” Though unintentional, I am certain, the total disregard for the fact that I have been breeding dogs for 40 years and have owned many frequently used stud dogs was rather arresting! I couldn’t help but think, “good grief; do they think I crawled out from under a rock last night?” I did receive a quite sensible post from a vet friend who had done some research on it for me; still nothing, however, that I could definitively hang my hat on. Then, three weeks after Mikaela’s death, the teeth chattering suddenly stopped. It is only now that I both understand and am awed by what I truly believe was Tilly’s natural knowing or, if you will, her extrasensory perception, her sixth sense. I sincerely feel that Tilly knew Mikaela was seriously failing and that her time was close at hand. My sense is that the teeth chattering was stress-related and the only way she could give voice to her concern. It was after Mikaela’s death that the chattering came almost non-stop, clearly a manifestation of her grief. After all, Tilly has never known life without Mikaela, or life as an only dog, for that matter. From my perspective, I cannot remember a time when I last shared my life with only one dog.
Occasional waves of sadness continue to wash over me but, because I have made this journey before, I know it will pass with time. My foundation bitch, purchased when she was a puppy in 1970, lived for more than 15 years and was my first experience with playing God, vis-à-vis taking on the job of deciding when it is time to say goodbye and suffering the pain that is usually in concert. Fortunately such longevity has continued down my line, first through her daughter who lived to 15½, and then, through her son, Gleanngay Holliday aka “Doc”. Doc became the breed’s watershed dog and its all-time top producer; he remains the #2 top-producing terrier sire of all time behind the Smooth Fox Terrier, Ttarb The Brat. For most of us, the role our dogs play in our lives cannot be understated. Regardless of whether or not Doc is considered a gift to the breed, he was indeed a very special gift to me during a period of great personal upheaval and tragedy. My marriage of 22 years ended when Doc was but a pup of 6 weeks and I lost my 27-year-old son when Doc was seven. He saw me remarried in his 13th year and moved with me three times during his fifteen and 3/4 years. His gift was one of stability in my life. But more than that, just knowing him was a delight.
I can’t remember when Doc stopped jumping up into my arms. It was a trick his handler taught him, easily no doubt, as he was always an accommodating dog. Anyway, when he knew you wanted him out of the ex-pen, he would sidle up to the edge and simultaneously, as your arms went down to lift him up, would raise himself to meet them, making himself as light as a feather with all four legs leaving the ground at once.
He weathered his life well, making his final trip to the Montgomery Terrier show in October, 1990 at 13 1/2 years of age and siring his last litter (while still alive) through chilled semen on February 18, 1992 – two months shy of 15 years. As with so many now, Doc lives on through his frozen semen and, in fact, was Mikaela’s sire, producing her four years after his death.
Sometime prior to his 16th birthday, I had written, “Doc is old now, soon to be 16 and I know his days are numbered. His eyes are dulled and he is so very fragile that my heart aches. Everyone says I’ll know when the time is right to send him on his way…my heart aches over this too.” It was my painful decision that Doc leave us on December 28, 1992, 3 1/2 months shy of his 16th birthday. Several days later I wrote, “In many ways I feel that Doc had already left me…could it be that animals, because of their purity of spirit, are blessed in the end with the ability to choose their own time to leave us after all?”
And when they leave us, are we ever really parted from them, at least from the ones we loved so much? Call me a romantic but something strangely ethereal happened after I picked up Mikaela’s ashes. They were in a lovely cedar box with a tiny gold lock and key and her name engraved on a small gold dog bone, this encased in a little purple organza drawstring bag. Carrying it to my car I carefully placed it in the seat next to me. I started the car and such emotionally charged music began to float from the radio that I was drawn to hit “Text” on the touch screen to see what the piece was. The name of the piece was “Ashes.” Weird…perhaps…but I prefer to feel that it was Mikaela reaching across the Rainbow Bridge to let me know we were still connected in some magical way and that all was well.
Short URL: http://caninechronicle.com/?p=13868
Posted by subschron
on Jan 10 2013. Filed under Current Articles, Editorial, Health & Training.
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