Being Brave for a Dying Dog

My dog will stay by my side through the harshest storm, while a person will leave when it gets windy. – St. Francis of Asisi (translated from a German quotation)

At 4am on a cold October morning, Buddy, our Boston Terrier, came to my side of the bed with a distressed look. He was making heaving sounds, and looking at me as if I knew what to do.

I said, “C’mon,” and we went out the back door. He was so thin and weak, but he still managed to run out the door and carefully walk down the steps. He found a green spot next to the apple tree. Then, he started to vomit. His whole body contracted heavily. It was difficult to watch. He looked like he was in a lot of pain. He was losing blood, and the vet still didn’t know why.

After a minute, the spasms stopped. Then he just sat there, looking blankly, as if he contemplated his condition. I called to him, “Buddy, let’s go home.” He looked towards me and bowed his head slightly. He was quiet for another minute, and finally decided to walk back up the stairs. He climbed up slowly and carefully, with his ears drooped.

Once inside the kitchen, he sat on a pillow on the floor as I turned off the back-door light. He looked at me with guilt. I said, “It’s okay, Buddy. It’s not your fault.” I stroked his back. He lost a lot of weight. I could feel his bones. I offered him water and he refused. Then, I headed towards the master’s bedroom and told him, “C’mon. Let’s get to bed.” Slowly, he stood up and followed me to the room.

He walked to his hairy blanket on the floor and sat down. I sat down beside him and told him to lie down and sleep. He did lie down, but his eyes were wide open. I just couldn’t leave him.

So, I lay down beside him on the floor, not thinking about how cold it was. I wrapped a blanket around him and stroked his head. Sometimes, he would turn to look up to see if I was still there. And then, when he saw my eyes, he would lie back again. Quietly, I told him, “Hang in there, Buddy. We’ll see your doctor soon.” After about ten minutes, he was content and snoring.

I went back to bed and hoped that he wouldn’t have another episode that night.

Then, at 6am, I heard him walk up to my side of the bed again. I woke up startled, thinking he needed to go out again. But he wasn’t heaving or making any noises. He was just looking straight at me, like he wanted something.

I told him, “wait, stay,” and he sat beside the bed. I took his shaggy blanket and put it over my bed. Then, he put his paws on it and looked at me again. That was always the signal to boost him up on to the bed.

I lifted this lighter dog up onto the bed, and wrapped him with the blanket. He lay down without hesitation and got to sleep immediately. He treasured his spot.

Buddy was a fighter. He could take anything, as long as I assured him. And for one brief moment, with only an hour of sleep left until the alarm went off, everything was back to normal for Buddy. He didn’t mind if I shoved him slightly so I could get some space. He just knew that I wasn’t disappointed about his barfing. He felt at home. He belonged.

The following week, when we had decided that Buddy should not go through the pain anymore, I thought about the night he came to me for help.

I decided then, just as I had in the past that I should be strong for the dying. I should be strong for everyone. I owe it to Buddy for his loyalty and unconditional love.

While the family cried, and said goodbye to Buddy, I held back. He loved the hugs and the attention. Every time I moved about the room, he looked anxious, as if I was leaving. I just kept telling Buddy, “I’m just here.”

When he got drowsy, I looked into his eyes, and he looked back. “I’m still here. Go to sleep good doggie.” He didn’t look frightened at all. He was loved and at peace. It was only when he was asleep that I left him. My son, Mike stayed with him until the very end.

I wonder if doing that for Buddy meant anything at all. Anyone who never had a pet would say, “he’s only a dog.” But he was the dog that drew strength from a human that was going to be there for him, just as he was always there with me.

My wife and kids didn’t see me cry. At one point, they thought I was heartless. The next morning, I grieved by myself.

I needed to record this, so that I can remember what it was like to be the rock for another being – for Buddy – the dog that loved us unconditionally.