There was still a tag attached.
That’s what I remember most vividly. There was still a big
cardboard tag, the kind that keeps you from being able to fit the merchandise in your pocket
as a theft deterrent device, still attached to the obviously brand new toy she held so proudly in her mouth. It was the kind of tag that allows it to be hung on
a rack for easy display whilst also providing the descriptor that announces the
features of the toy that your pup might find most exciting and enjoyable. The
colorful cardboard backing to allow plastic ties to prop up mouthpiece rope
from the stuffed animal body and prohibit easy pilfering. That tag was hanging
out of one side of her mouth as she clung to the beloved toy that dangled from the other. Toy and tag in tandem swinging from one end of her while the other wagged tail so hard it
made her bony hips hula.
Her name was so endearing it made me stop to smile. Her
name, a blossom in springtime, a flower in the glimmer of an eye, the baby of a
movie star who wanted to be cool and still maintain cute. I’ll call her Honey.
She was bright-eyed, exuberant, bubbly, bounding and exploding with joy to be
around people. She is the lab pup every Labrador-lover dreamt of. She is pure
love and kisses in your face the minute she gets close enough to steal your cheek
unguarded. She is the reason I became a veterinarian. She is the reason every
pet loving person grieves for decades when they lose their beloved pet. She is
perfect. BUT, she is also old. 11 years old to be exact. She has not been to the vet in
many years and her very dapperly dressed dad is sitting quietly in his designer
loafers without laces, cross-legged in pressed, creased herringbone tweed
pants. Where Honey is outgoing and energetic, he is stoic and reserved.
There is a foot of snow on the ground outside and every inch
of landscape is slush and snow. I look at his buff-tan-kidskin leather loafers
and wonder how he got from his car to our exam room on this yacht shoes missing
soles. I look for an assistant who must have carried him in, knowing Honey
wouldn’t have permitted an easy passage and yet he shows no sign of snow or
wet.
I sit on the floor next to Honey and she cuddles up in my lap immediately.
I am here in this room with them both, on the floor embracing Honey and delivering the hardest conversation I ever have to be present for.
This is Biscuit.. she reminds me of Honey. I adore this girl,, and she knows it |
I look at Honeys overdressed dad and say, “I’m sorry but the
veterinarian doesn’t feel right about this.” He is quiet, his eyes narrowing
and his composure tightening. He is waiting for me to dig in, and I see him returning
the favor.
You see Honey is here, brand new toy in tow, wagging, happy and excited to be with us, to be euthanized. Her dad is here, holding her tight on a short leash, stoic, reserved and yet determined to make this a one way trip for her.
I go on to say; “We have a terrible problem with burnout,
suicide and mental health. I do not force anyone to do anything they don’t feel
right about.” I let the words fall around him hoping they landed softly enough
to allow a crack in the façade to let the light in just a little bit?
I waited. I stroked Honey’s head and whispered a mental “I
love you,” knowing I would likely never see her again.
These are the moments of the days of my veterinary life I
despise. The moments that remind me to be brave and stay true to my heart,,
even if I am alone in this.
I was the fourth person to enter this room with Honey today.
The first had been our vet tech who had placed both in the Comfort Room as his
appointment with Honey had been scheduled as a “QOL” exam, short for quality
of life. We do not book euthanasia appointments with out a veterinarians
prior consent. This is not a slaughterhouse. You do not drop off to pick up
remains later. We are a family who loves pets as our own family. We take this request
as a discussion and a decision not lightly agreed upon. If pets are truly property
there is no conscious of grief to surrender yourself to. But we all know pets
are so much more than this to all of us. We know that they are our truest
friend. Our most adoring confidant, our reason for early wake-ups and long
walks. When everything else in life seems questionable and unreliable your pets
will remind you they are your constant. We don’t need much more than the belonging
they inherently give us.
The technician came back to the treatment area to report
that Honey was walking well, seemed happy as a lark, was carrying a toy to show
us how delighted she was to have it, and that she was deeply concerned that Honey looked
A-OK. She couldn’t imagine what kind of quality her dad was in search
of. Honey had bounced up to her, thrust her toy in her face, dropped it to the ground
and planted a big wet kiss on her face. The technician was smitten with Honey.
The second person to enter the Comfort Room was the
veterinarian. In less than a minute Honey had given her the same welcome, and
after a brief exam it seemed that Honey had aging back legs and might benefit
from an analgesic and NSAID. The veterinarian also offered to run some routine
diagnostics and see if we could provide some options to help improve her quality
and spare her life. A discussion ensued about cost, benefit, possible side
effects, and after a few moments Honeys dad said, “the family has decided. We
are ready to put her down.” It hit like a blow. The veterinarian countered. “Would
you consider surrendering her?” He nodded, she left and the office manager
entered.
In the bowels of the hospital the staff gathered to hear
what the veterinarian recalled. “He’s going to sign Honey over to us. Call
Heidi, see if she will come down and meet Honey.” We started to make plans to find
Honey a new home, and we started to draft a list of diagnostics to run to make
sure we knew what Honey had going on inside. The techs were excited, bustling
and congratulating each other on their interventional good deed. There was a
levity that spread, it was hope packaged in healing hands and warm hearts. It
is the lifeblood that feeds the marrow of a place like this. It is the small miracles
that fill our long days with purpose and stories and the passing of intentions
into matters that build our souls and fill our sails. For a place like our
veterinary clinic it is the small wins to help make the inevitable tragedies
more palatable.
A few minutes later the office manager came into the treatment
area. We all knew by her quiet entrance that the news was bad. “He won’t surrender
her.” The girls begged for a “why!?” She replied; “He doesn’t want her to be with anyone
else.”
None of us could accept it. They all argued with how the
hopes had been dashed so quickly. Had she asked the wrong question? Had it been
lost on him in translation between a vet and a manager? Should we send the vet
back in?
The girls suggested alternatives to save her life, spare her from being disposed of so coldly and unconscionably, ..
“Can’t we just say we euthanized her? He doesn’t want to be
with her anyway?” The first option they threw out.
“What if we only give a little bit of the solution?” Like adding a splash of water to the euthanasia solution might dilute it to the place where it wasn't effective.
Desperate pleas for a desperate place.
There were no answers left to offer. We only had one choice
left.
Honey's dad wasn't going to let her have any other option than the one he walked into our door deciding she deserved. These places, these cases, these are the ones that kill you. For some of us, literally and completely. They destroy lives that care and our ability to care again.
I looked at the other veterinarian. She looked back at me.
We both didn’t want to be the other persons answer. The mirror of responsibility
to the staff who always had their hearts on their sleeves and worked so hard to
just be a kind heart to a pet in need. We didn’t want to put the other in a
place of heart-wrenching decision making.
“I can’t do it,” she said. “I just can’t.”
I looked at the office manager. “He is not going to
surrender her.”
That left me. Alone, and with a Honey of a problem to reconcile alone.
I walked into the room with Honey. The fourth person she
brought her new toy to. The fourth person she was as excited as the first. I
sat on the floor, she flopped, toy in tow bouncing with its cardboard tag alongside
her tongue into my lap.
I whispered silently to her longing eyes of love, “I love you.”
Honey is not alone. She has me rooting for her. Alone in a
quest to remind her father, her family, whoever, that there has to be compassion,
even in times of mercy, and we have to remember how precious each day is and
fight for our chance at seeing tomorrow with love, hope, and kindness in our
hearts.
Honeys dad tried to argue our stance. He made phone calls,
he stood fast in his decision. When I cam back into the room some minutes later
I handed him two bottles of analgesic hope and a paper that said Honeys
treatments had been on the house. I added that I hoped it help her feel better
and that we were here if we could help her again.
I extended an olive branch of defiance. I stood by my staff
who would have been balling and questioning my cruelty had I chosen Honeys family’s side. I stood by being kind when it wasn’t
the right thing for me to do for her family. I stand here now not knowing if it
was the right thing for Honey, and why I should be asking about it being
anything other than that.
Here's more on Honey's case;
..and so the question remains? What would you do?
I posted this story within a few days of it occurring. I had to find a place to put the heavy heart I was carrying. This job, this heart on your sleeve, and this degree of emotional investment has a cost.
Three months later (to the day) we got a phone call. Honey was still alive and her family wanted to surrender her to us. We were blown away, excited, and relieved. We just didn't know what condition she would be in. We knew that her dad had been back once to buy more analgesics for her. He also wanted to surrender the other dog she was with. (WHAT!? Another dog)? We said yes!
Honey with her new friend Emma, on her first day in rescue |