You’d been sick for so long that I hardly remember the dog who used to run around the house and yard, who’d jump up onto the bed, and bark at animals and passersby. As I look at old pictures of you today, it’s the ones where you lie sleeping that remind me of you the most. Perhaps because that was how you looked for most of the last year---asleep on the couch, the bed, the corner of my bedroom, or curled up in the sun in the living room.



I don’t think that I’ll ever forget your last day---Friday, August 7. I woke up at 4:15, like every other week day. I made my breakfast of egg whites and turkey bacon, listening for you to wake up and join me. For a while, you joined me at this early hour. You’d wake with me, go outside, then stand with me in the kitchen, waiting for your share of the eggs, many times barking and yelping if I seemed to be finishing but not moving fast enough. In recent weeks, though, you often didn’t awake until I was finished cooking. And in recent days, you awoke to use the bathroom, but you didn’t join me for breakfast.



On Friday, you woke up as I finished cooking. I put you outside and sat down to eat, expecting you to scratch on the metal side door at any moment. I ate, and time passed, and you didn’t scratch. This wasn’t unusual. In recent days, I think you were too weak to stand on your hind legs and scratch. So, I finished my plate. I saved you some egg whites. And I went into the kitchen to let you in to eat.



You were in the corner of your RatZone, lying in an awkward position. I put down the plate and went outside to scoop you up. You were covered in urine and feces, so I took you into the bathroom and gave you a warm shower to clean you off. Once you were clean, I dried you with a warm towel, and set you down on a dry towel, next to the shower, to rest. I kissed you and petted your fur, and then I went to the gym, like most days.



When I come home, you were still lying on the bathroom floor. I was worried about you, so I spent some extra time talking to you and stroking your fur. I got a shower and got ready to go to work, all the time watching you. Before I left, I knelt down and stroked your fur some more. I told you that I loved you, and I went to work. That was 7:00 in the morning.



At 9:20, Daddy told me that you were struggling and that it was time. You’d managed to get up, only to stagger into the kitchen to collapse and lose your bowels. I was shocked. We’d talked about what we would do, but nothing prepares you for that exact moment. I volunteered to call the hospital. I picked up my phone, and I walked into one of the small conference rooms at the office. I called the vet, and I asked them about euthanasia. I tried to be distant, but my voice was cracking. I made the appointment for 2:20. That was 9:45.



At 10:00, I left the office. I grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom and brought it with me. I cried all the way. As I drove home, I had one last plan for you. I wanted you to be outside and lie in the warm sun one last time, so I planned to come home, get us all together, then head for the park.



We gathered you up in an old blanket, and the five of us headed to South Park. We tried to find a quiet place, a private place, where you could lie in the sun and the girls could play on a swing set. We settled on the playground we’d been to with the girls many times before. We weren’t the only ones there, but I didn’t mind. My thoughts were on you, in the sun.



We sat there for about an hour, watching the girls play, watching you lie there. It was sunny, and you were squinting. Then it became hot, and I didn’t want you to feel sick, so we left and drove for some lunch. You weren’t hungry. We came back home, and the girls left for the day. Daddy and I wanted them to say their goodbyes early on. They left around 12:45. Daddy got into the shower, and I settled down in the chair with you for one last nap together. I wanted to lie beside you. I wanted to relax and stroke your fur one last time. I wanted to smell the smell of your fur, the smell that I now realize was synonymous with home.



2:00 came far too quickly. It came so quickly that I wondered if I’d made a mistake in scheduling the appointment for the same day. I did it for you, and I realize that postponing would have been for me, but I couldn’t help but feel selfish.



Daddy carried you out to the car, and I held you in the car as we drove the short few minutes to the vet. It was cold inside, and I felt the weight of what was about to happen the minute we sat down. The receptionists seemed to look at us sadly, and the one older customer seemed to sense, maybe in our eyes, that we were arriving with a dog we wouldn’t be leaving with.



We walked into the room and Daddy held you for a while, talking to you, stroking your fur, and telling you how much he loved you. I talked to the nurse and the doctor about what was happening, and how we wanted you to be at peace. It was hard, and I struggled with every word. Then it was my turn to hold you. I held you in the green and white blanket. I talked to you. I kissed your head, your snout. I tried to think of good times.



The nurse came back to get you to insert the catheter, and I wondered if you’d be okay. You always hated the vet, were so afraid. I was hoping that this time, you’d be better, calmer. I was wrong. The nurse brought you back in a muzzle. A small part of me laughed, because you were a fighter right until the end, but the rest of me was sad and angry that you would die in a muzzle. The nurse laid you down on the table, and Daddy and I stood right by you. I stroked your head, and I told you that I loved you.



The doctor came back and it was time. She inserted the needle into the catheter, but you were uncomfortable or in pain, and you thrashed around. I felt horrible. I wished you were calm and at peace. Then, suddenly, you were. You fell silent and still, and you didn’t move again. I fell. I was crushed. I burst into tears. It felt like a piece of my heart had been ripped out of my body. I realize now that was the part of my heart that I’d given you over 14 years ago. The part that had always been yours to keep. The part that I would never have with me again. I don’t remember how long we stood there, crying, talking to you. I knew we had to leave, but I didn’t want to leave you.



We left through the back door, and each step reminded me of how I was walking away from a part of my life. You were a constant companion. You followed me to 5 apartments, 1 condo, and 1 house. You saw my wedding and the birth of my children. You saw me through 7+ jobs, unemployment, and every up and down and boring in-between. You were there through all of it, waiting for me, at home.



Now, when I walk through the door, home feels different. It feels empty. It smells empty. I glance around, half-expecting to see you sleeping atop the couch or next to the bed. I wake up and think that you need to be let out. But you’re not, and you don’t.



I miss you. I love you. And I’ll never forget what you meant to me. You were my dog---your skinny body, soft fur, and smell. I will always love you, Magnus.

tokolos, I just finished reading your post and went back in time and cried, cried like a baby cries, I'm sooo sorry you have to feel the same way I felt a year ago, that was the most horrible pain I ever felt. As I was reading I saw my self thinking about the same last day I spent with my Baby Boy Buster preparing my self for the evening were he was supposed to see around for las time and be together, I will never forget that June 19th at 1:55am and like you when everything was over was when I start it my fight trying to forget what I never could, even today I remember him still like it was the very last day when saw him one last time and died on my arms and like you I told him I loved him a hundred times and huged him even more, I'm very sorry for your lost and I wish you and your whole family well and please remember him always for ever like I am right now remembering My sweet Son Buster, take good care, bye, Jorge Click to view attachment

Oh how very sad. I'm so sorry for your loss.

I was in that same position this April. Hunny was diagnosed last summer with cancer, just a few days after we suddenly and unexpectedly lost Lily. Hunny lost two toes to the cancer, and the vet wasn't able to remove all of the cancer cells. So we knew it was a matter of time before it grew back. I noticed it at Christmastime when she started to limp when we went for a walk. The cancer grew quickly and I thought I felt a huge mass on her chest. When we took her back to another vet beginning of March ( I wanted a second opinion, I knew it was too late, but I couldn't give up without trying), it had spread to the lymph nodes. She was on pain killers for a month. Her mind was good, but her body was failing her. I think she was ready to go, but I don't think she wanted to leave us or our other pups.

Lumps were popping up in other places the last couple weeks before we let her go. My husband found one on the back of her neck. I had hoped that she would slip away in her sleep, but she didn't. Her eyes were sad (or in pain - it was hard to tell). I cried everynight for so many months while she was still with us. I played over and over in my mind what her final moments would be like. This was the first time I've ever thad to do this. We decided we needed to phone the vet on Wednesday April 1st. I couldn't do it, so I had my husband do it but he didn't do it till the next morning. I cried all day Wednesday. The appointment was made for Saturday April 4th at 4:30. You know how it goes, I don't want to write about it anymore - I still cry when I think of what we did. But I honestly didn't want her to suffer. I've watched a dog die from cancer - it is horrible. Hunny was a very proud dog and I couldn't put her through that. She was a tough beautiful dog. And I miss her so much, but she is with Lily now and I need for them to both be happy and healthy and together.

I feel your pain. This is a great site. I wish I had found it last summer when we lost Lily. But I found it the Wednesday before we gave Hunny her angel wings.

I hope they are all together having a great time and that they are all very healthy again.

Take care.

Thank you. These last few days have been the hardest of my life. He was such a great dog, everything I could ever have wanted, and I would do anything to have him back here for one more day, just to sit with me and let me pet his fur. I know that time will make my thoughts of him easier, but I can't see that right now.

I've planted a tree for him, and it's a beautiful tree, but I find that I can't really look at it. I'd rather him here. I feel like I need to gather up all his things and preserve them so he doesn't leave us completely. I think I've found all the pictures we took of him these last 14+ years. There are hundreds.

We're having his ashes returned to us on August 19, and I need to try to find a small urn that suits him. I've seen a few things, but nothing really speaks to me.

I know that everyone grieves differently, but how long is it before you would say that you felt at peace and had more good days (minutes, hours) than bad ones?

Tokolos,

I am so sorry for your loss. As I read your post I cried because our last day with Buddy (last year on August 1st) was almost exactly the same--we wanted to spend as much time as possible with him and for us 6:00PM came to fast.

The first few weeks are always the hardest--especially hard for me was when I picked up his ashes. As you said, everyone grieves differently, but as time passes you will start to feel better and the memories will make you smile instead of cry.

Again, please accept my deepest sympathy. Everyone on this board has been where you are now and will be there to support you.

luvmypets

Hi again.

Everyone heals at their own pace.

I have to admit that I felt "acceptance" the morning of April 4th (the day that we let Hunny fly to be with Lily). We had already mourned for I guess in the previous months because we knew what was coming. Like I said I before I cried so many tears for her before she left (lots after too), but when I woke up that Saturday morning, there was an acceptance, I don't think it was peace exactly. I guess I had come to accept that we had done what we could for her, and to let her live in pain was just being selfish. She deserved so much more than that. She deserved to leave with her dignity intact. I knew in my heart that we had to let her go. I knew we could do nothing more for her and at that point I needed her to be with Lily. I needed her and Lily to be together again.

It still hurts like crazy and I still haven't buried her ashes next to Lily. I can't seem to do that yet. And I didn't feel comfortable until her ashes were home with us - we waited two weeks for her to be returned to us.

And for a while it felt like Hunny was just outside, but then I would always come to the realization that no she wasn't outside anymore.

We too printed off many photos of her. I even made little memorial cards for her and mailed them to the vets who had looked after her. That seemed to help. I thanked them for their help and for being so kind to us and Hunny.

I miss her so much each and every day. Lily too. And I wish I could hold them and kiss them all the time. But I find that I can make it through a day without crying for them. I think of them so many times during the day, but sometimes the tears don't fall. It's been 14 months since Lily left and 4 months since Hunny left. I often wonder how long Hunny would have lived if we hadn't given her her angel wings. I feel bad that we had to cut her life short like this, but I just couldn't bear to watch her suffer and I knew that was only a matter of time. The vet said it was the right thing to do. They were both only 8 when they died.

Anyway, it takes time. There will always be a hole in your heart but the good memories will replace most of the sad ones in time. I don't want to NOT miss them - time flies by so fast. I can't believe it's been over a year since Lily left.

Just be patient. It takes a while.

Thank you, and it's true, I don't want NOT want to miss Magnus.

It will be hard to pick up his ashes on the 19th---it's hard to even talk about something like that - "his ashes"---but perhaps that will give me some peace. It's been a bit horrible thinking about him at the vet's office, waiting to be picked up for cremation, so getting his body back may be the final bit of closure. I've planted a tree. I've gathered his things near me. I'm putting all his pictures together in an album. All that remains are the ashes. His soul is in God's hands now, but his body will be back home, with us, where he belongs for as long as we're here.

Dear Tokolos, I offer my sympathy to you & your family during this very sad time.
Your beautiful letter to Magnus, took me back to June 10 this year. It was me & my dog Buddy then.
I am so sorry that you had to watch Magnus being so upset. It was awful for me & my Buddy was just so accepting.
I remember being unable to say the word ashes even when I went to pick them up. We went to our holiday farm a few weeks ago & I took Buddy's ashes with me & brought them back again, I just couldn't go down there without him (we even had our new fur companion Jesse James by then), but I just had to take Buddy with me.
Forget about how long @ the moment, just go with the flow of the river of tears that I know stream down your face & make you feel as if you are drowning in pain.
The first few weeks or awful, there really is no other way to sugar coat it. I look back & am suprised that I have survived such an ordeal. When you read all the gr8 information on this site you will come to realise that there is a sort of pattern to the processing of all that you feel, but there is no right or wrong way to feel. One thing we all have @ the fore front of our pain, is the love that we have and continue to have for our companions even though they aren't with us any more. Also the love our companions have for us is so 'unconditional' we really cant believe they could love us when it comes time to let them go.
Go gently
You & your family are in my prayers.
{{{HUGS}}} elaine

Dear Tokolos,

I am so very sorry for your loss. I've done really well about not crying so much lately, but your letter just hurt my heart. I wish I could tell you that the pain fades quickly, but it is true that only time is going to help. We lost our beloved Doberman, Austin, on May 17th this year. The story is different, but the pain is the same. Austin was totally my baby. He loved my husband, but I was his person. He was with me always, He was so sweet and gentle and always seemed to understand what i was saying when I talked to him. He was my heart! He was only 7 1/2 years old when he had a heart attack and died while playing catch with my husband. The vet said it had to have been cardiomyopathy. I know this is prevalent in Dobes, but we were under the mistaken impression that there was no cardio in his bloodline. There are no symptoms. They just go and there is no reviving them. I know it's horrible to have to make the decision to release our babies from their pain, but the shock of losing a young, (seemingly) healthy dog is heart wrenching. When you love them as much as we do, there just is no easy way to say goodbye. The first couple of weeks were just awful for me and I really don't remember much. I was so grief stricken that it physically hurt to breathe. I didn't eat and if I was awake I was crying. I slept a lot and I know it was just as an escape from the pain. I measured my healing by how many hours I went without crying, then by days. I miss him terribly and truthfully I don't ever want to stop missing him. I had a bad on on July 26th when I realized it would have been his 8th birthday. I put flowers on his urn in my bedroom and in front of his photo in the living room. I did cry a lot that day. We now have a beautiful new Dobie puppy (who was actually born 2 days before Austin died). He is quite handsome, but still all puppy with the biting and chewing, etc. I sometimes feel guilty because in my eyes he just doesn't measure up to my baby - which I know is not fair to little Maximus. Maybe that is why Max has decided that my husband is "his person" and I am second fiddle. I do love him, but we have not had the time to really bond and form a relationship yet. And contrary to what others may tell you, rushing to get another puppy does not ease the grief - at least not in my case. I wish Austin was here to play with Max, then I would be happy.

What did help somewhat was that I did what you're doing. I gathered up Austin's favorite toys, the beautiful collar I had made for him, photos and anything else that was special and I placed them all in a beautiful decorative storage box and have stored it inmy closet. the one thing I didn't put in there was the stuffed bunny I bought him for Easter. It was still laying on our bed where Austin had left it that morning. I slept with that bunny for weeks after he left. Each of us has to find our own coping mechanisms to help us through the first agonizing weeks. I was very grateful that I found this website shortly after it happened. I was able to pour out my grief without anyone telling me I had grieved long enough, move on. Or "just get another dog". This is the place where everyone understands the pain because we've all been there. And the compassion I received was inspiring. I would just tell you to hang in there, grieve as long as you need to, and come here to write, vent, cry - whatever, as often as you want or need to. I promise, it does get easier eventually, but it does not mean that you will ever love Magnus any less. Let's all just hope and pray that our furbabies really are waiting for us just on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.

Manys hugs are sent your way and I'll pray that you find some peace and solace tonight.
Austin's Mom (Carol)

Reading all of your replies just touches my heart in a way that I can't describe. You've all been through this pain, and while that doesn't make it any better, it makes me happy to think that there were so many animals that were loved so much. It also gives me hope for the future. I never want to forget him, but I do look forward to a time when I don't feel like I'm suffocating in sorrow, when I can start to see the joy in things again.

You know Tkolos I even experienced that longing to not want to suffocate in my sorrow oo.
I hope you know it will happen to you too. Don't be impatient with yourself, I remember starting to get that way. Apprantly getting impatient in wanting things to feel better is a sign that you are moving forward in the grief process......
My response was rather sarcastically spirited. "Oh great"
You are in my prayers.
elaine

Your letter was the most touching thing I have ever read. I no longer have any fur babies, I lost my last two girls 7 years ago. They were the last of five dogs who grew up together but it broke my heart when I had to send them on their way. I still cry at night and I know that when its time for me to go, my babies will come back for me.
Your baby will always be with you, he will never leave you. You will catch a glimpse of him
from time to time and feel his presence. And always remember he will be waiting for you at Rainbow Bridge.
My heart goes out to you.

Love and hugs

Trish xx