For years, Buster played a supporting role in our pet menagerie; a tiny Yorkie mix with Benji fur and eyes that looked like black marbles.
Months ago, he began to grow more detached, patiently enduring the loss of his sight and hearing.
And in recent weeks, he had become a ghost; pacing the house in the same pattern, curling up in a dark corner and only coming out for a bite or two of food and the uncomfortable force-feeding of medicine that kept him alive.
Months ago, he began to grow more detached, patiently enduring the loss of his sight and hearing.
And in recent weeks, he had become a ghost; pacing the house in the same pattern, curling up in a dark corner and only coming out for a bite or two of food and the uncomfortable force-feeding of medicine that kept him alive.
Buster had lived with epilepsy for 15 years and a heart murmur for almost that long. And in the end, he was on medication that helped the inflammation around his heart but gave him an insatiable thirst. But still he survived.
He was comfortable with the place he chose for himself amongst our cats and dogs. When we got him, our goofy yellow Lab Waldo was two years old and we jokingly called the tiny terrier “Waldo’s dog.”
He was comfortable with the place he chose for himself amongst our cats and dogs. When we got him, our goofy yellow Lab Waldo was two years old and we jokingly called the tiny terrier “Waldo’s dog.”
Buster worshiped Waldo, and was a patient partner in our young daughter’s play. When she dressed up the dogs, Waldo would frantically race until he was free of the confining costumes. Buster would sit quietly, wearing the frilly doll hats and dresses happily.
When we went camping, Waldo chased around the campsite and Buster went to his favorite place – burrowed into the bottom of one of our sleeping bags. He was a great camping dog, we would brag, and if he got tired on our longer backpacking trips, we just carried him.
Epilepsy was like a cruel shadow that followed him everywhere. For several years, he suffered seizures almost every month. One weekend, he had dozens of seizures, each one leaving him weak and temporarily blind.
But he always recovered, and we thought he deserved our support. And as the years went on, his epilepsy diminished, replaced by heart disease.
Waldo died two and a half years ago, and after that, Buster withdrew, seeming lost and old. He coexisted with our new dog, Hunter the beagle, but never really interacted with him. He wandered our house, peeing in any available corner. We stopped taking him for walks because he would gasp for breath. He had congestive heart failure, our longtime vet told us. With a new medication, he could last maybe a couple more years. We were going to give him that.
But in the past few weeks, Buster became afraid. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him or pet him. He whimpered all night and wandered the house all day.
He was miserable and so were we, so I called our vet. Lisa, his assistant, listened while I told her our decision about Buster. “You did a great job,” she said softly.
We took him in. Afterward, my husband and I talked about how hard it is to take that step, to make a decision we shouldn't have to make. “That’s part of owning pets,” he said. “It’s the hardest part.”
When we went camping, Waldo chased around the campsite and Buster went to his favorite place – burrowed into the bottom of one of our sleeping bags. He was a great camping dog, we would brag, and if he got tired on our longer backpacking trips, we just carried him.
Epilepsy was like a cruel shadow that followed him everywhere. For several years, he suffered seizures almost every month. One weekend, he had dozens of seizures, each one leaving him weak and temporarily blind.
But he always recovered, and we thought he deserved our support. And as the years went on, his epilepsy diminished, replaced by heart disease.
Waldo died two and a half years ago, and after that, Buster withdrew, seeming lost and old. He coexisted with our new dog, Hunter the beagle, but never really interacted with him. He wandered our house, peeing in any available corner. We stopped taking him for walks because he would gasp for breath. He had congestive heart failure, our longtime vet told us. With a new medication, he could last maybe a couple more years. We were going to give him that.
But in the past few weeks, Buster became afraid. He wouldn’t let anyone touch him or pet him. He whimpered all night and wandered the house all day.
He was miserable and so were we, so I called our vet. Lisa, his assistant, listened while I told her our decision about Buster. “You did a great job,” she said softly.
We took him in. Afterward, my husband and I talked about how hard it is to take that step, to make a decision we shouldn't have to make. “That’s part of owning pets,” he said. “It’s the hardest part.”
And it’s a part we are willing to accept, again and again.
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