Wednesday, four days before Christmas, 2022

My 12-year-old and 8-year-old are staying with my parents, so Jason and I have time for some last-minute shopping and wrapping. The 15-year-old is at practice, so we rush home from the shops to pick her up in time and deal with my low blood sugar. I gave blood earlier in the day and haven’t felt like myself. Our dog, Moose, is acting a little out of the ordinary, but not enough to shake us up. He stayed on the lower level of the house after we got home instead of guarding the door, but it’s easy enough to write that off. 

We go to bed, and he tries to follow but can’t get past the bottom few steps. 

We lift him to the top, and he’s in obvious pain. We convince ourselves that it’s minor. Jason coaxes him downstairs and outside for a quick walk, then back upstairs for sleep without further incident.

Thursday, three days before Christmas

We wake up and head downstairs to make coffee and start the day, but we hear a thunk from upstairs. Moose would ordinarily tromp downstairs with us and stand by the door for a walk, but he hasn’t budged. When I go up to check on him, he’s sitting on the floor and can’t seem to move his back legs. I immediately google emergency vets, and we make a stretcher out of a giant beach towel to get him into the car. 

The doctor is skilled and kind and bursts my bubble of denial. It’s severe, likely neurological. He’ll need an MRI and probably surgery. Do we want to pursue that level of treatment? 

It’s most likely a bulging spinal disc that has cut off messages from his brain to the back end of his body. Untreated, he would need constant care; he’d be unable to run with our kids, chase our cats, or go for four-legged walks around the block. 

I cry and wait. I text a wise friend who immediately recognizes that texting is inadequate. She calls and sits with me through sobs and unrelated nonsense while I sit alone in the exam room.  

I call Jason, and we wring our hands and think about the expense. We evaluate our ability to devote the time and energy it would take to care for a dog with a severe disability. We conclude that euthanasia would be the most likely outcome in that scenario, so no, we won’t euthanize our dog three days before Christmas. We can’t imagine doing that to our kids. 

I’m given a referral for a veterinary ER across town with an MRI and a surgical suite. Moose rides patiently in the back of the car and makes no complaints. It’s a long drive, though, and I notice every bump in the pothole-ridden streets. 

We arrive, and this doctor is also warm, kind, and honest — “no guarantees” — but reassuring — “we do this surgery all the time; it’s 90% effective.”

They can’t get him into surgery until the next day, so they keep Moose overnight. I head home to wait. 

We wait. 

We play out the next steps “if he’s in surgery tomorrow, he’ll probably come home on Sunday.” “He’s going to be in a crate 24/7 while he recovers.” “He’ll need us to help him outside with a towel supporting his belly. He’ll be on medications, with a whole suite of post-op instructions once this is all said and done.” 

It’s almost Christmas, and we still have wrapping to do. We have family coming in from out of town. We plan to stay with them at an Airbnb while they’re visiting, but Moose won’t be able to go. 

Will one of us stay home with him while everyone else is with family? How will the timing work on Christmas Day? Not massive in the grand scheme of things, we mull over these details to cope with not having control.

Friday, two days before Christmas

We get a call early in the morning saying that the whole animal hospital has lost power. They can’t perform surgery and recommend that we transfer to a different hospital an hour away. They’ve called and checked availability - do we want to go ahead with it? 

The parking lot at the ER is packed, but I eventually find a spot and, after some waiting, get help carrying Moose out to the car again. It’s bitterly cold, and the highways are under construction, but ultimately we make our way to Athens to UGA’s veterinary teaching hospital. 

I fill out all the same paperwork again and repeat the whole history and diagnosis with another lovely doctor. One discovery from this experience is that emergency veterinarians are kinder than your average bear. 

They reassure me and, again, say that immediate surgery isn’t an option, but they’ll get him in as soon as possible. I get back on the road. 

On the road, I scarf a granola bar and stop at a strange-to-me Target for last-minute gifts. I’m on the phone with another wise friend. She listens and sends love, and it feels good to have company. Everyone in the store appears to be thinking typical holiday thoughts. I wonder how many of them are also distracted by heartache.

That evening, we get a delightful call from one of the surgeons. They got him into surgery earlier than expected, and it went well. The extent of his disc inflammation was surprising, but “I really like your dog. He’s so sweet.” Maybe she says that about every dog, but it sounded emphatic.

Saturday, Christmas Eve

We get a call early in the morning that things have taken a turn. After surgery, Moose initially showed promising signs of responsiveness in his rear limbs, but that’s changed. He is quickly losing nervous system function. He won’t survive. We need to euthanize him as soon as possible. He is dying - our only options are peaceful or painful. 

Fuck. 

Can we bring him home and have someone come to the house to euthanize him here? We’ve done that before, and being in our own space was comforting. 

No. He would most likely stop breathing during the hour-long drive. He would suffer, and we would be helpless. 

Can we come back to Athens and be with him at the end? 

Yes. 

We pile everybody into the minivan and drive in a confusing jumble of emotions. Christmas music? No way. Conversation? Not that, either. Boredom, distraction, crushing sadness, disbelief at the absurdity. 

We are ushered into a room, and they bring Moose in. He is lying down and can’t move. He has bandages and some shaved spots. We have no idea what he is thinking, but we circle him and cover him in hugs, pats, and as many soothing words as possible. The vet explains the procedure to us, and we sit with him, rest our hands on him and drip tears on him as they give him the two injections, and he stops breathing.

Friday, March 24, exactly three months later 

We miss our dog. I miss his nose and the soft patch of white fur on his chest. He was part terrier, and his hair was a little wiry, but he had soft furry spots too. He was gentle and was great with both kids and cats.

He hated thunder and would follow me around and lean against my leg when it got loud outside. He wanted to be wherever we were and would make space on a couch if he could find an inch to squeeze into. 

I haven’t always been an animal person, but Moose changed me. I didn’t have my first pet until I was in my twenties, and I was so naïve then! I mostly resented our then cat and dog for presenting me with problems I didn’t know how to solve. Now, the inconveniences of animals are far outweighed by their gifts. Their warm presence, cuddly affection, the way they develop habits, and still sometimes surprise you. The way they make a house feel alive.

I loved having him at home with me during the day and forcing me to go for walks. I didn’t love it on rainy or frigid days, but there were so many times when I grumbled, then realized that taking care of him put me in the way of beauty. Oh! A full moon. Ah, the flowers are out! Look at that sunset! 

I wish I’d spent more time loving and caring for him. I suspect death does that to us - it makes us believe that this one relationship should have taken priority over everything else, even without knowing that it would be so brief. I still wish it, though. 

I hope he felt loved, especially at the end. I hope he felt our love.