The good thing about having an unpleasant thing happen rarely, is that its pain is infrequent. The bad thing is that you never "get used to it," and you feel the pain all the more when you're forced to confront it.
That's one view of losing a beloved pet that has shared a significant portion of your life. In our case it's a golden retriever who was with us for going on 13 years. That's a ripe old age for a dog; our vet once told us that reaching 15 would be roughly the equivalent of a human reaching the magic century mark.
Daisy didn't quite make that milestone. At roughly 85 years by the popular "seven times" dog-to-human formula, she had a bad set of rear wheels, more-or-less permanent gland malfunction, mammary tumors, and a graying, silvery face that made her look like a 70-pound raccoon. Storms terrorized her as an older dog, too. But she had a big heart and an enthusiasm with overdrive gear whenever a Frisbee, a tennis ball - or perchance a grouse - was there to be retrieved.
I've lost dogs before, in various ways. But I don't think I could get blasˇ about being a part of the dog-vet-owner triad when it comes time to "put a dog down."
There is bedside manner not only in the practice of human medicine, but also in the practice of veterinary medicine. Or, at least there can be, as was shown by our vet. She and her assistant did not come into the room where Daisy and I waited in a grim or out-of-the ordinary manner. They spoke as soothingly and reassuringly to Daisy as any other visit, as if all we were there for was her annual shots and examination.
This was certainly the right thing for Daisy, keeping her as calm as possible. Yet it gave a surreal feeling to the whole proceeding, as if we might prove really to be here for some more innocent purpose. It seemed at the same time both a kindness and a deception, as measured by the standards we're accustomed to in the practice of human medicine.
A pet does not suffer when its life ends this way. It is like the loss of consciousness for a surgical procedure, but the heart stops and the animal does not regain consciousness. It is so immediate that it's difficult not to imagine that your pet is asleep, and perhaps - in an instant of denial - the illogical, imaginative side of your mind fancies that perhaps this can be undone. But of course it can't, and you must dwell on the reasons that brought you and your pet to this parting, not the fantasy of "if only."
I'm not without sentiment, but I prefer to focus on memories rather than ashes. I especially like to recall lines from an essay by Ben Hur Lampman, titled "Where to Bury a Dog." "If you bury him in this spot ... he will come to you when you call...over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master."
