Labor Day, 2006, is a day I will never forget. It was a gorgeous day here in San Diego—bright, sunny and nearly 90 degrees. I decided it was a perfect day to give the dogs an outdoor bath. At the time, we had Valentine, the matriarch at nearly twelve years old, Izzy who was four, and the two young ones Magic and Angelina who were two years old. We started with Valentine—at her age she’d had a little problem with urinary incontinence, and she needed her bath the most. We knew that the coiled up hose sitting in the sun on that hot afternoon had enough warm water to bathe her in, so my daughter and I mixed shampoo in a bucket of hot water from the kitchen sink, and just outside the garage, we soaped her up. She seemed to be enjoying herself, a nice soapy massage on a beautiful day, and then a quick rinse. As I turned to get the towel to dry her, I heard my daughter say loudly and in a panic, “VAL, DON’T FALL DOWN!” I turned back around and she was gone, down on the wet pavement, eyes blank. She never felt a thing. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the driveway with my dead dog, brushing her hair until it dried and the crematorium people came to take her away. Needless to say, no one else got a bath that day.
I once read an essay by an oncologist who said that she hoped that she would die of cancer. I was baffled by this, because my personal preference would be to go suddenly, of a heart attack or a massive stroke, preferably while doing something I enjoy. But her reasoning was quite clear: she said that with cancer, when you know that your days on earth are numbered, you still have time—time to do the things you always wanted to do, time to say good bye, time to make amends. This has actually been true for most of my patients—when they know that they are diagnosed with a life threatening illness, their priorities change. If they have the means, they live the lives they always wanted to live, for as long as they are able. They remember, they forgive and they forget. The trivialities of daily life become unimportant, except insofar as they struggle to get through them. Many become the person they always wanted to be, and I hope that if this is my fate, I have the grace to do the same.
Today we took old Magic to the veterinary cardiologist. Magic is my eldest deerhound—a big male at 120 pounds, and nearly ten years old. The last two weeks have been hard for him—we’ve had thunderstorms and he has always been afraid of thunder. In desperation over his anxiety last week I called his vet for a prescription for a tranquilizer. It worked temporarily, but on Tuesday we had strangers in the house and he was panting, salivating, and his heart was beating far too rapidly. I laid a hand on his chest and I knew instantly that his big old heart was failing. Today the diagnostic echocardiogram confirmed what I already knew—that my big guy has dilated cardiomyopathy, and that he is in congestive heart failure. We started medication immediately, and I am hoping for a few more weeks, or a few more months with this grand old man who is, as my husband says, “the dog who never did anything wrong.”
Do dogs, like humans, know when they are dying? I don’t think so. And in fact, for their sake, I hope not. Unlike us, they have nothing to apologize for, and perhaps their next meal, or a walk in the park, or in a dream a wild chase after a highland stag, followed by a soft bed and the touch of a human hand is all that they hope for and dream about. As Magic slowly made his way out of the van today onto solid ground, he was greeted warmly by Queen, Quicksilver and little Yoda. I can no longer promise him a life beyond his years, but I promised him today that every day from now on will be the best day I can give him—lots of treats, a comfortable place to rest, and with all certainty, no more baths.