Last photo of Ben, the "Golden Old'n," with Sadie, "The People Dog," Mary, a winter visitor and John QUICK AND
EASY, I don’t know if giving terminally ill patients the option of suicide makes death easier for them. It could make life less difficult, but deciding could be harder than death itself. I hesitate to equate this very sensitive issue about human life with that of canine euthanasia. But our aged dog Ben, in his final lesson last week, reminded me that the power to decide is hard for the soul to bear. We inherited Ben three years and three months ago. He was already in the fourth trimester of life – older than old. He’d been the cherished companion of our long-time friend, Methow Valley writer Jeanne Hardy. In her final weeks, as she was dying of lung cancer, Jeanne worried about what would happen to Ben. When he heard that, my husband became more animated than I’d seen since his stroke. I thought John was going to jump right out of his wheelchair and walk to the Methow, if necessary, to get that dog. I was not as enthused about taking on the care of one more living being, especially a very large, very furry dog. But Ben’s sweet, golden retriever temperament quickly won me over. After the briefest introductory discussion with Sadie, our springer spaniel, Ben integrated himself seamlessly into our home and lives. * * * AGE HAD put him on the downhill road, and recently the rate of decline increased. As movement became more difficult, food became less appealing and the world seemed to blur, I would wonder, is this Ben’s last day? I worried about quality of life. He seemed to hear my silent doubts, answering with a determined wag of his plumed tail. Just go to sleep and don’t wake up, I silently begged. Don’t make me decide. His sight totally gone, he became confused. He would eat only if I fed him by hand and go outside only if I coaxed him every inch of the way. Finally he could not stand up, and I called for the vet. She confirmed that despite the heavy doses of pain-killers Ben was getting, pain was winning. “What are the options?” I asked. She hesitated, which told me we had none. We could hospitalize Ben in hopes of prolonging his life a while, but that wouldn’t be fair to him. Ben was forcing me to make the decision, say the words. * * * WE TOOK him outside, where he lay in the warmth of sunshine on our patio, the river sparkling so radiantly he must have felt it even if he couldn’t see. The injection is called “Fatal Plus,” a mixture of phenobarbital and other ingredients guaranteed to act instantaneously. The brain quits and then, with no messages from the brain, the lungs stop. I spoke quietly to Ben as the shot was prepared. He didn’t like having his paw shaved, but he barely winced when the needle went in. Then I felt the full weight of his big head in my hand. In the moment it took for the vet to put down the syringe and pick up her stethoscope, he was gone. I continued petting him, no longer giving comfort but seeking it from the feel of his rich, thick fur. Then the vet picked up his strangely lifeless body and placed it in her truck. “It’s surprising how quick it is,” she said, “and everything changes.” © Mary Koch, Omak, Washington 2005 |