We've been having an increasing number of disasters with Bandit, who in addition to being diabetic is also unable to stand on his own and has been slowly losing the ability to walk at all due to a spinal degenerative disease he was diagnosed with in June but has clearly had for much longer than that. Needless to say if we don't get to him in time it can cause unpleasant issues. He's been losing weight again, he cries and cries and cries to get up, and the past couple days he hasn't been eating well. He also spends most of his time sleeping. Add that to the fact that my husband often comes home from work and has to bathe both the dog and whatever floor he was lying on, and the writing on the wall is pretty clear.
It appears that it's time for us to do the thing we hoped to never have to do.
Knowing the day and time of your pet's last moments is horrifying. It's like another line in your stupid Day Planner- Sunday, Bandit vet appointment- only it's the worst ever vet appointment and every time you look at him you break out into ugly sobbing because of the guilt you carry with you. How is this something you can just plan? WTF is this? Logan's Run?
The problem with that comparison is that Bandit is way more a Peter Ustinov than a Michael York in that scenario. He's nearly 16, which in dog years means he's almost as old as George Burns would be if he were still alive.
Knowing it's coming is one thing. Calling the vet and setting the date is completely different. You start noting the last time for everything. Last night, last bath, last meal, last Sunday. And that's why there's guilt. Guilt and questions. Did I let this go on too long? Is he miserable? I haven't seen his tail wag much lately. Has he been trying to tell us he's ready? If he could tell me something would he be upset that we came to this decision?
Being in this situation makes you want to drink. Heavily. Starting now.
I'll take two, please.
I don't want to do this. He was lying on the floor next to me as I wrote most of this last night, and is sleeping in the bedroom right now, and my heart is already shattered, I've got an unending waterfall of tears streaking down my face, and every time I look at him I either choke back a sob or wail an I'm sorry because I am. I am sorry.
I'm sorry I wasn't a better doggy mommy.
I'm sorry I ever forgot to give him insulin or any other medication.
I'm sorry for every single time I ever yelled at him.
I'm sorry that Lani is only going to have vague memories of him and that Bandit never really got to play with his boy because he's been too old.
I'm sorry that the internet research tells us that even if we had an infinite amount of money to throw at his health issues there's not really anything we can do to better his quality of life or stop this from happening and even if we found a way to keep moving on with things as they are he's living on borrowed time.
He kind of is, actually. When he started to slow down my husband thought we'd better get another dog- a puppy- to help both me and Shiva ease through the transition of losing him.
This was the day we got her. Now Rosabel is five.
Then there was that bout of Old Dog Vestibular Disease that looked like a stroke.
Then there was two years ago when we thought we were gonna lose him for sure and it turned out he only had diabetes.
I'm still not ready for this. I don't see how anyone ever could be. Bandit has been my comfort, my protector, my baby. He's the first dog I've ever had. He licked the tears off of my face on September 11, 2001 when I was sitting there watching the news in shock. He's woken my husband in the middle of the night when my blood sugar was low. He's been an integral part of our lives for well over fifteen years. He's family.
I hate this. I hate this as much as I love him and I love him a lot. I don't know how I'll handle those last moments. I keep praying and hoping and wishing that we'll get to the vet and they'll say, Oh, we can fix this. Give him this pill/shot/enema and he'll be walking again in no time. I know it won't happen, but this is what's been getting me through this horrible, rotten, tear filled weekend. A tiny, minuscule, nearly non-existent chance that it won't be his last and I won't have to go through with this.
Addendum: I wrote the above last night and edited it some this morning. Writing has always been cathartic for me and getting my emotions out between sobs helped some.
About thirty minutes ago Bandit left this world and crossed over the Rainbow Bridge. I have never been this heartbroken. We were with him when he passed and I still don't think this is real. It can't be. He can't be gone. I don't want to believe it.
