They Say A Good Cry Is Therapeutic Part One

You shouldn't ever have to make the choice for something to live or die.  It's isn't right.  It isn't fair.  I guess I was a little naive to think we wouldn't ever have to go through this, make this decision.  Ever. Well, call me naive.

"Who the hell are we?" Shawn asked.
"We're the people who took away her suffering.  That's who we are,"  I replied.


I have a feeling it's going to take me a while to write this as I cannot even see the screen.  My eyes are so puffy I no longer appear to be American.  Enjoy that.  It's the only joke I'll tell here.  We had our 10 pound Chihuahua for twelve years, if my math is correct.  The vet was astounded at the blood work, at how healthy she was.  However the X-ray had proved otherwise.

A month ago, we put her on steroids.  Prissy hated the liquid medicine that preceded the pill and fought me more each day of the two week period she'd half to take it.  But within a day of being on the steroids, she improved dramatically.  She was a whole new dog.  Today is Tuesday.  On Saturday, Prissy was walking slowly, carefully.  On Sunday she was whimpering and crying every time she moved.  As the day progressed, her pain progressed.

I sat with her for the entire day Sunday.  I tried to keep Prissy from moving, to keep he comfortable as much as possible.  She would not even lay her head down and he front legs would start to buckle from holding herself up for so long.  Even move, ever adjustable would cause her to cry out and for me to well up on tears.  I could only just sit there and watch her be in pain.  I couldn't do anything.  I couldn't help her.

I spent most of the day with the right side of my body numb, and angry at God.

I promised Prissy we'd get her fixed up the next day, on Monday.  I was hoping we could get another steroid shot, another medication and everything would be fine.  That night, I laid her in her bed and for the first time all day, she lay down and slept.

The next day I went off to work, told my boss I needed only an hour.  I was happy that it looked like a busy day.  That would pad my check nicely.  At 7:30 I left work and met Shawn at the vet.  He sat in his truck holding our little dog and was was sobbing.  "How are we doing?" I asked.  He shook his head.

Shawn said every little tiny bump hurt her; the entire trip hurt her.  He also said that earlier, he turned from Prissy for a few seconds and heard her make a noise like he'd never heard before.  "We've had this dog for a long time and I've never heard her make that sound!" Shawn cried.

He was in the bathroom and apparently Prissy was trying to go through the doggie door, cried out in such pain that it sent Shawn flying down the hallway.  He went straight to her bed and panicked because she was not there and found her standing by the door, "Hunched up like a cat."  He felt guilty that he'd forgotten to take her out.  It was her instinct to use that door, of course but, "I never heard her make that sound before."

Once inside, we discussed things with the vet.  The issue here was that there is no cushion between the two vertebrates in Prissy's back.  The steroids only worked one month and this time it was so much worse.  And from here, it would only get worse,  We were left alone to talk about it.

This little dog never left my side anytime I was sick and now I held her close to my body.  "Shawn, I cannot make this decision.  I can't do it!" I sobbed.  I don't expect people without pets to understand this.  Why should it be up to us to make this decision?  Life and death is a decision that God should make.  Not us!

Shawn said to keep this going, we'd be selfish, and it may be so much worse the next time.  He was the one to say the words to the doctor.  I was incapable of doing it.

The vet shaved a bit of hair from Prissy's leg and started an IV.  Shawn scooped her up and held her tightly.  She was terrifued.  She was in a place she didn't know, with strangers on either side of her.  I stood directly in front of my dog's face and looked right into her eyes.  I whispered, "I'm here," over and over.  Shawn felt Prissy's body relax, he later told me.  Prissy's eyes lowered as though she were sleepy and her focus began to drift.  The pink medication was injected and Shawn said within one or second seconds her entire body went completely limp.

Prissy was no longer looking at me, but through me, past me.  I kept waiting for her to blink.  She never blinked.  The vet placed one hand on Prissy's head, a stethoscope on her chest.  Several seconds went by, an hour for all I know.

"She's gone," Doctor Gage said quietly.

For several minuets we simply stood there holding Prissy and each other, sobbing quietly.

We wrapped her in a towel, placed Prissy in the passenger seat of my car.  I pulled my car behind Shawn's truck in the driveway and placed my hand on the little towel, now 7.9 pounds and bawled horribly.  Shawn got out of his truck and opened the car door and held me.  I cried so hard that air could hardly enter my lungs.  A high pitched sound was made with every breath I inhaled.  Shawn's body shook against mine and we just cried together.