Saying Goodbye to Orson

About a month ago, our beloved 12 year old dog's kidney ailment suddenly took a turn for the worse and we had to make some very difficult decisions. It was one of the longest and most heartbreaking weekends of our lives.

Orson was, as far as we know, a lab shepherd mix that we got from a friend. My husband had returned to working nights and I wanted a big dog for protection.

Of course, everyone thinks his or her pet is the most exceptional creature in the world, and of course we felt that way about Orson. My husband, having just read a book on sled dogs in Alaska and how they were trained decided he needed to establish himself as the alpha male with our pup right from the get go. This involved wrestling matches, barking and growling, and taking the dog out to pee and then peeing in his spots, which thankfully he only did at night in the privacy of our back yard. These practices along with cage training and 6 weeks of obedience classes seemed to work. Aside from eating the stuffing out of the inside of a futon couch when I once unwisely left him out of his training cage while I made a quick trip to the grocery store, and stealing the occasional hunk of cheese or meat left too temptingly close the edge of a counter, he was a pretty well behaved dog.

I don't know if it was my husband's alpha training or just innate good sense on Orson's part, but he took his job as defender of our property in general and protector of me in particular, very seriously. When my husband was gone he never let me out of his sight. When we went on walks and hikes with my husband Orson watched out for strangers and rattlesnakes but deferred to my husband. He was a different dog when we were out alone, however, not allowing anyone to get to close to me unless he knew them or I told him it was ok. When my husband was out of town he would get up every hour or so and prowl the house, sleeping with one eye open.

This is not to suggest he was a mean dog; he loved people once he was sure they were friends and was a terrible mooch at social gatherings. He loved to be around little kids and their crazy energy. More than anything he loved to play ball, chasing and retrieving, leaping in the air to catch it and if you tried to walk away from him with the ball and he was not ready to quit, he would get into what I can only describe as a baseball catcher's pose and stare you down until you threw him the ball. My husband and I used to joke that he was the reincarnation of an egomaniacal baseball player who met an untimely demise after being caught with another man's woman.

He also shared my love of food and my husband's love of beer and tequila. Anytime I would be in the kitchen cooking, he would be right next to me waiting for me to toss him scraps. We're not just talking meat scraps here; he would eat just about anything, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, broccoli, beets, carrots, apples, melons, bananas, and especially things that were bad for him like chocolate, nuts and cat food. We had to store these items high on the pantry shelves or he would help himself to these forbidden treats when we weren't looking. When he heard my husband open a beer, he would want his sip too, and he loved to lick out the dregs in the tequila shot glass.

Life was good for Orson and aside from blowing out his knee in a ball-chasing incident when he was about seven; an accident that required three separate surgeries, he was healthy and happy.

Then, about a year ago, we took him in for his yearly check up and the vet didn't like the look of Orson's urine analysis. After several tests the vet diagnosed a kidney ailment that could, thankfully be controlled by drugs and a high protein diet. While he was not that crazy about the pills, Orson loved the new high protein diet that included cottage cheese, sautéed chicken and beef livers and any kind of animal flesh we were having, as well as canned green beans ( French cut if you please) carrots, peas and beets. We all adapted and once again, life was good, until just before this past Christmas.

I noticed some lumps on Orson's body while I was brushing him so I took him to the vet, fearing of course that they were cancerous. The vet tested them and diagnosed them as fat nodules, something common in both animals and people as they age. Nothing to worry about. However, he did not like the elevated levels he found in Orson's urine analysis. Orson's medication needed to be adjusted. Now instead of two pills and an aspirin, he was taking 4 pills and a powder supplement. I was concerned by this turn of events, but when my husband tried tactfully to discuss it with me, I cut him off telling him that no matter what it cost, we were going to do what ever we needed to do to keep Orson as healthy as possible. I was, I knew deep inside, overacting because I knew we were looking at the beginning of the end and I didn't want to go there.

The holidays came and went and Orson's appetite started to wane. More trips to the vet, more powder, more special food, then finally one rainy gloomy weekend, Orson stopped eating altogether, and I knew we had come to the deciding point. What made it so difficult was that he was doing all the things he normally did albeit with less gusto. He still wanted to walk and chase the ball, but he tired very easily. He still followed me around the house, but he was walking very slowly. My long-suffering and tactful husband told me dogs were just hard wired that way. They were creatures of habit and would follow those habits no matter how bad they were feeling.

That weekend I spent a lot of time sitting in the den reading so Orson would rest in one spot. I stroked his ears and told him how much I loved him. I cried, a lot. On Monday morning, my husband took him for a walk while I called the vet and tearfully told him that I thought it was time to put Orson to sleep before he began to suffer. During the short drive to the vet's my husband and I could not bring ourselves to speak to each other, and hid behind our sunglasses choking back tears.

Our vet, a very kind man who had known and cared for Orson since he was a pup, looked him over and sadly agreed it was time. He left us alone with the dog while he and an assistant went to prepare what they needed. We sat on the floor with him and I removed his collar. My husband and I both stoked him and told him what a good dog he was. The vet returned with a strong sedative to relax Orson and injected it, leaving us once again. He came back with an assistant who shaved a spot on Orson's hind leg. By now Orson was almost dozing. The vet patted him and told him he was a terrific dog and then injected him with the lethal dose. In a few seconds, Orson closed his eyes and quietly stopped breathing, stretched out on the floor just as if he were in front of the fireplace enjoying a nice nap. We were all in tears while the vet examined Orson with a stethoscope and pronounced him "gone."

The following days and weeks were full of tears and grief for my husband and I. Orson's absence filled the house. For us, a couple that had forgotten to have children, it was like loosing a child, or a best friend. Not wanting to have to rehash the tale again and again for family and friends, I sent out an e-mail advising them all of Orson's death. They responded warmly with condolences, remembrances of Orson and stories of hard times they had gone through when having to make the decision to euthanize a dearly loved pet.

My main intent in writing this article was to eulogize my buddy, Orson. However, I also wanted to address the issue of making the decision of when you have done enough for an ill or elderly pet and it is time to let them have a dignified death. This is, of course, as intensely personal as it is painful, but I think the most important question is what is their quality of life? Are they enjoying it or just making it from day to day? Are you keeping them alive because you can't bear to be without them? Hard questions, but as your pet's guardian you have to answer them as truthfully as you can.