I brought our 10 year old Scoutie to the vet because something was not right. He was slow-moving, had little appetite, had troubling going #2 and seemed bloated. The vet took x-rays and before I knew it, we went from talking about more minor issues to talking about a huge mass on his spleen.
So huge, the vet could not even see Scout's spleen anymore. It was a huge, twisted mass, that had grown so fast, it was scary. His abdominal cavity was also filling with fluid. If they put him on the operating table, he could pass away. Even if he survived, the vet said it might only buy him a few months. And then, she had to put the other option on the table.
The goodbye.
The goodbye that could be done at the office or at our home. The goodbye that I was so not ready to give, that we're never ready to give to those we love. Commence crying, hugging, phone calls. I knew in my heart what had to be done, and I ached and ached. See, in front of me, he was still there! He was still himself! Laying on the floor of the vet's office, patiently waiting for us to go home. My Scoutie. My first "baby". The one Steve and I picked out together at Second Chance Animal Shelter (it turned out that Steve and I were his third owners. We called him our Third Chance Beagle. Why had the others given him away? Because he acted too much like a Beagle. I wish I was kidding.)
I knew we would do it at home. We made an appointment for the next afternoon at 3pm. Those 24 hours between then and when it happened? It was a blessing and a curse. I was acutely aware of every minute. It was his last car ride. It was his last quarry walk (he still wanted to take a big walk in the quarry that evening! It was lovely and confusing at the same time.) It was his last supper. It was the last time the kids would day goodnight to him before they went to bed.
Oh, the kids. Our sweet kids who loved Scout without abandon. Who always made time to get down to his level and pet his smooth fur. The vet helped us with how we should talk to them. She said they were way too young for final goodbyes. That we should just prepare them... "Scoutie is very, very sick. We're going to take him to the vet and see what they can do." The vet said it was imperative that the kids, upon reflection as they got older, would know that we, as their parents, had tried to do something. And we did. We did not want this to happen, but we could not put him through a potentially unsuccessful surgery with unknown outcome. I really appreciated that the vet helped us with how to talk to them.
Back to the lasts... it was the last time I would see both Maggie and Scout file into our bedroom to go to sleep on their respective beds. It was the last time I would enter my room, and see Scout so peacefully resting in his bed. It was the last morning that I got up, and both dogs came out of the room with me...
We fed Scout all the delicious people food he could manage. The vet said to spoil him, and I did my best. He, Maggie and I went on another last walk in the field behind our house. And wouldn't you know it? He was on a scent, doing the Beagle grunt, and howling! Yanking at the leash! Dog owners can appreciate this: he even had his first normal BM in days, at which point I looked up at the sky and said "God, why are you making me doubt this decision?" But my heart knew that appearances can be deceiving. The vet told us that without surgery, the spleen was going to burst any day, and he would bleed internally. He was also having some labored breathing because of that huge mass. I took that last field walk for what it was: one of Scoutie's Greatest Hits, where he got to be in true Beagle form.
3pm too long and way too quick all at the same time. The vet came with her technician, and we were all cross-legged in Scout's favorite room, the wood stove room. He wagged his tail at them and smelled their hands. After a while, they gave him a tranquilizer to calm him, but he still knew Steve and I were there. Then I did one of the hardest but absolutely necessary things I've ever had to do.
I got right down there with him, my face to his, cradling his soft Beagle head in my hands, petting him, and words started spewing out of me between tears. "You've been such a good boy. We love you, Scout. We love you so much. Rosie loves you. Buddy loves you. Dad loves you. I love you..." and that's about all I was able to get out before I saw the light leave his eyes and his body go quiet and still.
Oh, my Scoutie.
I had never been there at the moment death happens. It was so surprisingly quick, and peaceful, and I can say with certainty that the spirit leaves the body. I knew I was no longer cupping Scout, only his cute Beagle face.
I'm glad I was able to be there for him in his last minutes, and I'm not quite sure from what well I was able to muster the strength to do so, but it was exactly how it had to happen. In his and our home, in the woodstove room, my face to his.
Steve and I buried him together on the back hill behind our house. We buried him in his bed, with a few bones, a rope toy, and one of those horrendously smelly calf hooves he used to love to chew (really, they sell them at our local pet supply store.) We cried. It was so tough. But we were able to laugh some because man, he was a stubborn little Beagle. But we loved him for it.
Telling the kids once Nana brought them home, was so tough. Especially with Buddy saying "You're tricking!" three of four times before he realized we weren't. We try to explain the spirit to them, and Rosie seems quite reassured that Scoutie is now in Heaven with Great Grampa.
It's been two days, and while the pain seems a little less acute every day, it's still there, gnawing at us in the moments we least expect. But we just have to let grief do its thing. We loved our first dog deeply, and we had to say goodbye. At least for now.
We love you, Scout.
