How to Let Go

My dog is dying.

It sucks to write it out, because it makes it feel all the more real, but being silent about it won’t make it go away. He’s got metastatic melanoma, his kidneys aren’t working like they used to, and he’s showing signs of severe cognitive decline. It’s hard to tell, because dogs can’t directly tell us how they’re feeling, but it certainly seems like he’s on his way out.

Tracey and I adopted Henry from the local SPCA when he was about 5 years old. He stood out, at the shelter, as the only non-bully breed up for adoption (I love bullies, but they would never be allowed at the apartment complex where we lived back then). I’ll never forget that first meeting with him, in the little interaction room with the glass walls: a half-hearted game of tug-of-war, a few pats on the head, and he got so excited he had to go off to hide behind a chair in the corner, his tail still wagging like crazy. When I saw him, facing the wall like a little kid in time-out, his ropy tail still thumping against the ground, I could not stop laughing. I knew, right then and there, that this little weirdo was bound to be my best friend.

Henry, ca. 1 week post-adoption.

Henry always had more than his fair share of problems. He came from a “hoarding situation,” they told us, and along with the obvious socialization issues that can cause, he also had more than a few medical issues. His right rear kneecap had been dislocated at some point, and didn’t sit properly on his leg. He was prone to eye infections, ear infections, and skin infections, and he’s always been a little blind and deaf. We took the little guy in, and spent thousands of dollars on surgery and medication to get him feeling a little more alive - all well worth it, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

For a good few years there, he was downright healthy, and from all appearances quite happy as well. We would go for miles-long walks in Umstead Park, and I would carry him across the little creeks that crisscross that territory, because he was always afraid to get his paws wet. We’d take him to the beach and go crazy laughing at how he’d fling himself bodily into the sand, twisting and writhing like a fluffy little snake. Run with him, right on the edge of the water, until we all had to stop, panting, human and canine alike, and head back to the shade of our umbrella for water and rest. Man, I miss running with him.

Nowadays, though, it’s like he’s not there anymore, and that scares me a little. He’s changed so much. Where he used to chase me around the house when I’d grab one of his toys, he doesn’t even react to toys placed right in front of his nose anymore. When we let him out into the yard, he just paces in circles, confused, until we physically shepherd him back into the house. He’s acquired so many habits that grate on my nerves - and I know it’s not his fault, but there’s something in me that really resents him for chewing on himself all the time, for soiling the floor, for waking me up in the wee hours of the morning and then stubbornly refusing to go outside - even though I know that’s why he got up in the first place. I don’t want to resent him, but the stress of caring for a dying dog is doing that to me, and as with the dying itself, denial of that simple fact won’t get us anywhere. I have to sit with my resentment, get to know it, if I ever want to work through it.

Henry wears his cone just about all the time these days. He’s… not a fan.

And I have to work through it. For his sake, and for mine. I know it comes from a place of sorrow, of pain, not of hate. I know it’s just my fear taking the path of least resistance, pushing me to express myself in ways that I’ve been taught are correct. Resentment - anger - comes so naturally to American men like me in times of high emotion. It’s just how we parse the feelings we’re not otherwise capable of dealing with. So maybe I’ll let myself be resentful, but never towards Henry - he’s not the enemy, after all. He’s the victim. I’ll be angry on his behalf. Angry at the passing of time, at the quirks of biology that make my life so long and his so short.

So I’ll take that anger and use it as fuel for the fire. I’ll make this dog’s last few months on Earth as joyous and comfortable as possible. And with modern advancements in veterinary science, the range of what’s possible is broader than ever. A round of radiation therapy, plus a minor surgery, knocked out his first melanoma back in 2019. CBD treats and some particularly well-tolerated pain meds keep him calm and comfy despite his body’s cruel best efforts, and he eats salmon and pumpkin for every meal. I know, objectively, that he’s about as well cared-for as he could possibly be. But I still see him suffering sometimes, and I still know that behind his eyes, the dog we adopted is only half-here, the other half shorn away by the slow tide of dementia. So when is it the right time to say goodbye? What does that look like? His life has been such a bumpy road, and I worry that it’s going to be quite hard to tell when the road drops out from under us altogether.

This is the pain of caring for an ailing animal: you want to give so much of yourself that it’s hard to know when to stop. Doesn’t help that I’ve never been through this before. I don’t know what “done with this shit” looks like, for Henry. I don’t know what he wants from me, and I never will - even long after he’s gone, I know I’ll be second-guessing myself. Asking myself “did I really do all that I could do?” That’s the nature of the anxious human mind. But it’s a comfort to me to know, with some degree of certainty, that the existential fear of death is very much a human thing. Dogs don’t really fear death - I’m pretty sure they don’t have a conception of it until it’s right on top of them - and maybe that’s what makes them better than us.

Pictured: my whole world, basically.

I used to sarcastically refer to Henry as my “role model.” Well, the sarcasm’s gone now. I think we could all stand to take some notes from the dogs in our lives. Be more like them: love unconditionally, live without fear, eat when you’re hungry, rest when you’re tired, and endeavor to bring joy into the world just by existing. And then, when the time comes, try to die in comfort, surrounded by the best people in your life. I plan to be there, stroking Henry’s head, when that terrible, wonderful day comes. Terrible because - well, obviously. Wonderful because, even though I don’t believe in Heaven or any of that stuff, I know that he’ll never be in pain again. Maybe he’ll dream of me and Tracey forever. I hope they’re nice dreams. And maybe that’s the greatest gift you can give to someone you love, someone whose suffering is just too much: to just let them go gently to sleep in your arms, and to always, stubbornly, remember them at their best.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should probably go cry a little.