I knew when I created this blog that there was one real purpose to it, and that was to say goodbye to a dear friend. For those that know me, you will know that for my entire adult life my best friend, my sidekick, my companion, my soul mate, was a gentle, slightly dopey wonderful long dog, Dylan. I have put off writing this for a very long time, not because I was afraid of the pain but because there isn't any way that my words can give justice to how much my relationship with Dylan meant to me, how much he shaped my life and made me the person I am today. His endearing and relentless affection and calming nature saw me through times of inconceivable grief, upheaval and challenge. When humans let me down, he was always by my side. I am not afraid to admit that the relationship I had with Dylan was stronger than any relationship I have ever encountered with a human and will probably be the most important experience I will ever have. I am sure that some people reading this will think me dramatic, I've often been reminded that no love can compare to that of a parent and a child. Although I am sure that is indeed true, I don't understand why this comparison needs to be drawn. I am not a mother and I don't claim that the grief I feel for a non-human animal be comparable to that of a human. Yet for those of us without children, companionship with animals can offer the love and support of a family and it can be a heart wrenching experience that impacts us deeply when this connection is lost. It is for this reason that I've decided that the best thing I can do in light of Dylan's departure is to reflect on the stages leading to it. I do this because I think it might help others who may be facing similar decisions for their animal companion. It has also been a therapeutic experience for me in coming to terms with these events. Animal death is not new to me. I've worked in the Animal Sector for the majority of my professional life. I've been party to animal euthanasia, I've studied animal ethics, end of life care and I've learned to act pragmatically for the best interest of the individual in my care. I knew this day would come. I knew I would be the last person my boy would see, I knew he would leave me and I knew I would be left alone in this world to navigate the realm of humans without my shadow of encouragement to pick me up when I fall.
In all honesty, I have always found human relationships challenging. For me, Dylan was my confidant, he provided me emotional support and gave me courage. He opened up conversations, he provided me with a reason to leave the party early if I got overwhelmed, he was always there waiting for me, free from judgement, always excepting of my flaws.
Having always wanted a dog and never having one growing up, as soon as I turned 18 I moved out and adopted Dylan. He was a young pup, alone in the world and living on the streets in Ireland as a stray, until he found himself in the RSPCA re-homing center in Brighton. We soon became inseparable. He came to uni with me, and then to work with me, and we were at our happiest when it was just us stomping through the woods and running across the downs.
The Beginning of the End:
Over 11 years on, it was a normal weekday morning. Dylan and I were up bright and early at 6:30am for our pre-work walk. We left our one bed flat in Brighton and wandered to the local park. It was early, the city was shrouded by a lull of gentle activity as people began waking up and getting ready for work. The buses were relatively empty, the park seemed abandoned- just as we liked it. Dylan immediately took off, on the trail of last nights fox (or more likely the scent from the bin). I walked on ahead running through a mental list of what I needed to prepare for my lectures that day, only for the peace to be disrupted sharply by a blood curdling yelp. My heart plummeted to the bottom of my stomach as I looked around and saw Dylan crawling his way out from underneath a bush dragging his back legs behind him. Making sure to keep calm, to not distress him further, I held him up and placed his hind legs back into a standing position. A little wobbly at first, he soon regained his posture and was able to bear weight on all fours, he did not even flinch when I manipulated his legs checking for injury. Then, without a flicker of concern, he trotted off as if nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, knew there was more to worry about than he realized. I called the vets and asked my parents to take him in that morning. The news was not good. Dylan most likely had disease of the spine (we later found out it was a series of tumors, the first of note being the one lodged between two vertebra. It was most likely that his first fall was because he brushed up against a branch causing his legs to collapse underneath him).
Dylans decline was rapid after that first day. The goal posts changed quickly. Good days went from running as fast as he could to 30 minute around the park on the lead, to managing to get the end of the road and back without collapsing. Yet he was bright and loving and affectionate and seemingly without a care in the world. If only he knew the reality of it.
Over the course of six weeks Dylan and I both took on a change in routine. Instead of being up at the crack of dawn for a run, we would rise at the leisurely time of 7:30am. We'd stand in the kitchen together whilst the kettle boiled and I divvied up our pills. Painkillers and anti-inflammatory for Dylan, anti-anxieties and anti-depressants for me. The new journey we were both on was taking it's toll on my mental health. I was barely sleeping and I was distracted at work, nothing seemed to make much sense anymore. Dylan had taken to becoming listless in the night. I would often wake to find him stood next to my bed, where I would fall asleep again with my arm wrapped around him to tell him I was here, by his side always. If he didn't wake me then I would find myself checking in on him at 1, 2, 3am, I needed to know he was there.
Making the Decision:
Being pragmatic and experienced in professional animal care was an advantage when making the final decision, I was able to detach my fear for my own loss and concentrate on the measurable considerations of Dylan's comfort, pain levels and quality of life. Most importantly, my connection with Dylan was so deep rooted that I was able to allow him to tell me when it was time.
They say that when choosing a dog, they actually choose you. If you listen carefully they also tell you when they need you to let them go.
It was a Sunday morning when Dylan told me. His breathing had become increasingly heavy over the last 24 hours. Once again he hadn't the energy to stand. Perhaps it was simply a bad start to the morning, it might get better once the medication eases him into the day. I sat on the end of the bed chatting to him as I would normally do, but I stopped short as I noticed a strange clicking sound that I couldn't place, like the sound you get when there's a problem with electrical wiring. It was coming from Dylan. I lay my head on his chest, letting myself rise and fall with his deep breath. It sounded like rice-crispies crackling throughout his organs. I lifted my head and our eyes met. It was a look that seemed to ask one question of me: "why are you not helping?" That is when I knew.
That day Dylan's human family and close friends came to the flat to say goodbye. We reminisced with stories, filling the room with laughter for Dylan as he drifted in and out of sleep. We quietly cried in the garden to avoid him hearing our pain.
The Journeys End
That Monday I took the day off work. My family and I went for a long walk, a way to distract me from the approaching trauma and to let Dylan rest. I left an hour before his vets appointment, my body already entering a state of emotional shock. I returned home to find Dylan sleeping. He lazily opened his eyes and lolloped onto the bed beside me. He lay his entire body into mine, resting his head across my legs. He felt heavy, as did the air around us. As he slept I sat in silence, staring into nothingness wishing that the next hour wouldn't come to an end.
I had contemplated having the procedure done at home but my brother had sensibly asked if I would be OK to see him being carried away afterwards, I agreed that would be too much. We also worried that seeing the vet at home would cause him to panic. Dylan actually quite liked the vets as he was always spoiled with attention, so there would be no cause for alarm to him to be taken there. It was calm in the surgery, the nurse took him to have a patch on his front leg shaved, my mum and brother came with me as I signed the consent form and waited for him to return. Dylan was noticeably anxious, most probably because it was unusual for the entire family to be in the vets with him and he was likely in significant pain. We dimmed the lights, sat around him on the floor, and the vet injected the first fluid into the tube already attached into his leg- an opiate to calm him before the injection that would put him to sleep. He looked around, almost pleadingly, first at me, then my brother. He fought at the end. That was something I wasn't expecting. We whispered sweet nothings to him, and once the drug took hold his eyes turned grey and he stared intensely into my eyes, his head becoming heavy in my hands. As he drifted away, reality slowly crept back into the room, the air of tension lifting as our last shared moment together was over. We were left to say our goodbyes, but we didn't need long. His body had served him well over the course of his life, but the body that lay there was just a shell, it was not Dylan, he had already gone.
The nurse had cried as Dylan died and had been asked by the vet to leave the room. I bought the vet and the nurse chocolates and flowers the next day, I was touched by the emotion shared between us. It was a relief and a comfort to know his life was important to others. If there is one piece of advice I can give to anyone facing this decision, make sure you choose your vet wisely. I will forever be grateful to my vet, her compassion was exceptional, she treated Dylan and I with dignity in the moments where dignity is the first element of composure to unravel for all involved. She trusted my judgement as I did hers, and that ultimately served Dylan as best as possible to the very end.
Dylan had always been a large boy. The size of a greyhound he weighed in at around 27kg, but by the time of his death he weighed 36kg; 9kg of which were tumors. The drugs he was on to manage the swelling and pain were eroding his organs causing his kidneys and liver to fail. I don't know what the clicking was, and I don't much care to. There was no saving Dylan, but there was a way to save him from insufferable pain.
That decision was the cost I had to pay for 12 years of his unwavering companionship.
The beginning of the beginning
Saying goodbye is hard. There is no doubt in that. But the most difficult challenge is realizing that the months or weeks of preparing for that final moment is only the first hurdle. The biggest uphill climb is reshaping your life without them. That is the one thing that I hadn't prepare for and I'm not sure I could have. It feels like how I imagine it would feel to loose a limb. For months after Dylan left, I would find myself rubbing my fingers together at my side whilst the kettle boiled and I divvied up my pills in the morning. I never knew that I absentmindedly twiddle his ear with my fingers, not until it wasn't there anymore to touch. For months I would wake with a jolt as my hand reached out searching for him beside me. A year later, and in an entirely different flat, I still wake at 1, 2, 3am to look for him. Sometimes I wake to find the cat licking my tears. I'd often shared stories about Dylan with my students in lectures, using him and I as case studies about animal behaviour or animal training. Again without realizing, I continued to speak of Dylan in the present tense. So much so, that one of my students asked me one day why I don't bring him into work with me.
I count myself extremely lucky. I am surrounded by people who understand my grief, a unique advantage to working in the Animal Sector. I am lucky that I lived close to my family at the time of his passing and I was able to stay with them for a while afterwards. My dad went to my flat before I returned. I hadn't even noticed but my home had been saturated by the stink of death, it took an entire day of airing to almost rid the smell. I am lucky that people near and far reached out to me. I had messages come through on social media from people who had never even met Dylan, wishing me condolences and saying how much they had enjoyed seeing my posts about our adventures together. It seems he was quite the celebrity. I am lucky that my family and friends came to celebrate his life with a BBQ, we put up a projector in the garden and shared funny videos and photos, it was a beautiful tribute and a much needed comfort.
Some people are not so lucky to have this level of support, or the experience to fall on in making the right decision at the right time. There is a part of me that wishes I hadn't moved Dylan from my bed, that he could have died in his sleep at home in my arms. But I can't know that it would have been that way. I don't know what the clicking noise was, I don't know how much pain he was in or how long his suffering would have continued. I had to make that call. You have to make that call. If you accept an animal into your life, you have that responsibility to them, to be with them until the very end.
He entered my world staring into my eyes, and he left our world doing the same.
I hope you have found this blog post helpful if you are approaching this decision yourself or if you are unsure what to expect, and if you've experienced this yourself then I hope you know you are not alone.
If you have been affected by this post or want someone to talk to about similar issues, please contact the Blue Cross Pet Bereavement Service on 0800 096 6606, support lines are open every day from 8:30am-8:30pm.
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