TaxProf Blog

Editor: Paul L. Caron, Dean
Pepperdine University School of Law

Sunday, March 11, 2018

The Pain Of Loving Old Dogs

SandyFollowing up on my previous post, Goodbye Sandy:  New York Times op-ed:  The Pain of Loving Old Dogs, by Margaret Renkl:

Clark is ... deaf, and he suffers from crippling arthritis. So far we have been able to manage his pain with medication, but at his checkup last year, when he turned 13, the vet had some sobering news. “With big dogs, there’s often a huge difference between 12 and 13,” he said. “One day Clark won’t be able to get up, and when that happens it’ll be time to let him go.”

The very idea is unthinkable. Clark has been our family protector, making political canvassers and religious zealots think twice about knocking on our door. He was the dog of our sons’ childhood, the pillow they sprawled on during Saturday-morning cartoons, the security blanket they returned to after an impossible test or a classroom bully or, later, a broken heart. At 14, this big dog has now surpassed his life expectancy. ...

Clark is now under the care of a young hospice vet. On his first visit — a terrible day two weeks ago when suddenly Clark could no longer stand up — the vet worked a miracle. Now on a new combination of medications, Clark is wagging his tail again and begging to be taken on walks. But time is still time, and always unfolding. On the hospice vet’s next visit, he will most likely be coming to help us say goodbye.

Clark understands that he is old and weak and vulnerable, and it’s hard now to leave him alone with his fears. I watch sometimes from the next room when my husband leaves the house and Clark thinks he has been abandoned. Standing next to the door, he folds himself up, lowering his hind quarters gradually, bit by bit, until his aching haunches touch the floor. He slides his front feet forward, slowly, slowly, and he is down.

A moan begins in the back of his throat, lower pitched than a whine, higher than a groan, and grows. His head tips back. His eyes close. The moan escapes in a rush of vowels, louder and louder and louder, and now he is howling. It’s the sound he made in his youth whenever he heard a siren passing on the big road at the edge of the neighborhood, but he can’t hear that far any more.

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We lost our dog of 13 years back in November. We didn't have to put her down. She got sick on a Wednesday night and died on a Thursday night. It was devastating. I cried when our dog died in November. The only other time I cried was when my father unexpectedly died on Christmas Eve when I was 12 years old. James Lileks from the Star Tribune wrote a wonderful essay about losing his dog last year,

Posted by: charles | Mar 13, 2018 1:25:40 PM

I'm with Will Rogers: "“If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”

Posted by: Tuphat | Mar 14, 2018 5:57:40 AM