Menu for a Last Supper
Our Dog’s Final Day
Yesterday was the last day for our dog Scout. She was old — the pain in her joints was rough, but the dementia that was scouring away her personality, abrading away her peace, was brutal. Like everybody who must say a final goodbye to their pet, we’ve agonized and second-guessed about when would be the right time to euthanize her; like everybody who’s faced this no-win decision, we’re prey the self-recrimination and guilt over the selfishness we fear coils at the heart of such a decision, the cowardice at the core of us. Ultimately though, the four of us — my wife and our two sons, both in their early 20s — concluded that, given the chronic psychic unrest Scouty had been feeling, the grip of which seemed to tighten with each passing night, it would be unkind of us to permit her to endure it any longer. The dementia inside her sweet mind was drawing a cowl over her, cinching her away out of our reach.
So, anguishing though it has been for each of us, we agreed that Scouty’s time had come, and that we, her trusted people, must act if we were to spare her further disquiet. We consulted with her vet — in hopes, probably, that she would tell us “Oh, yes. It is clearly time,” which she did not, but then neither did she say “This animal has many good years left.” Bound I’m sure to some ethical code governing such decisions, Scouty’s doctor very much…
