Letting Go

Like me, you all probably hold the unofficial title of "animal expert" in your offices and neighborhoods. With one gentleman inmy office, our casual conversation frequently revolved around his elderly German Shepherd Dog, "Max". Max was getting old, almost 13 years, and as the months passed our conversation moved from dog houses and anecdotes to arthritis and ways to make a geriatric dog more comfortable. Eventually, hesitantly, we touched on euthanasia. Tom was uncomfortable asking about it, and I doubt if I provided the definitive answer he was seeking. I spoke of dignity and quality of life, but to his question of "when?" I could only reply that Max would let him know.

A few weeks ago Tom stood in front of my desk and shuffled uncomfortably. Dreading the answer, I asked what was wrong. "You were right," he blurted. "I knew it was time and had Max put to sleep this weekend."

We moved to a quiet area and talked of memories and guilt and the overwhelming sense of loss. We both dabbed at unacknowledged tears and worked through all the feelings that he had just discovered and I had known before. He overcame his embarrassment and asked about my personal philosophy of an afterlife for beloved dogs, and wondered if there wasn't something he could do to acknowledge Max's life. I showed him the memorial pages for Snowbear and Velour that I was working on for the Newsletter, and explained that this was one of our ways of saying "he was a good dog and we miss him." After exploring several ideas, he decided that the suggestion to plant a tree by Max's grave was both appropriate and comforting; then we each went back to work.

Tom felt much better after working through some of his feelings with an understanding person; I felt awful! The rest of my day was spent with part of my mind on my work, the rest on the dogs I had loved and lost. I had to admit that "knowing all the right answers", having other Corgis to lick the tears away, sometimes provided little help when a much beloved companion was lost. I thought of a line, out of context and from an unremembered work, when a woman was asked to explain her inexplicable tears..." I was crying for all the dead dogs in my life." Is that what makes it so hard sometimes? Is unresolved pain from each loss added to that which comes after?

Death is a dilemma we as breeders must face more often than the average pet owner. We have more dogs of our own, and so frequently we pick up the telephone to hear a strained voice tell us their beloved old Corgi has died ... do we expect puppies soon? A friend sobs that a promising youngster is dead when all precautionary immunizations were given, all veterinary care provided. How well do we resolve our own grief, and how well do we handle the questions and needs of our family, friends, and clients?

A slender volume found this week on the just-published shelf at my library has given me some excellent professional help in this seldom-discussed area: PET LOSS, by Herbert Nieburg, published 1982 by Harper and Row. This well-written book deals frankly and sensitively with grief reactions, euthanasia, lost or unsuitable pets, and options to explore about burial and cremation. Professional advice is included about helping children deal with the loss of their friend, and the question of "replacement" is explored. I found it to be the answer to my own needs, and the needs of my clients and friends. I suspect that when I get my own copy it will be the most "well-lent" (though tear-stained) book in my library.

Make an effort to find this book ... it's well worth the search, and could be priceless when you or someone you care about is confronted with a loss that seems too great to handle. I only wish it had been written many dog lives ago.