The Guy Side: Come on, boy, it’s time to go

I never got to know my grandfather; he died when I was 3. He exists, for me, in the nuggets my mother remembers, of his days as an amateur boxer and Pennsylvania coal miner, things he did to keep food on the table during the Depression. It’s heroic stuff, mostly. Except for this bit, which I always considered odd:

“I never saw him cry,” she told me, “except when he lost his dog.”

My own dog passed away last week. A tightly wired terrier mix, Amos was most dangerous when happy — which he was, often. My legs are lined like an interstate map to prove it. He loved cars. He never drove but when visitors came over he’d bolt out the door and jump in their car. He liked the idea of “going.”

As he passed 17, though, he found himself trapped in a body that could no longer express his spirit. Pets age without complaint, in such slow degrees that you can deny every symptom, every illness, as it appears. One great myth of aging pets is “when their time comes, they’ll let you know.” That is, basically, crap. It defers responsibility to a sick animal who must be self-aware enough to see his fate and relay a decision to you, while you sit on your sofa and say, “What’s wrong, fella?”

Saying “it’s time” is a responsibility you can’t defer. The vet doesn’t know your pet well enough. You and your spouse will take turns arguing each side of the issue. But a graceful end is the unspoken promise you make to that cute kitten or puppy the moment you bring it into your home. And it’s what you owe them, for the lifetime of love and loyalty they give you in between. It’s a hard call because it requires a firmness of purpose that doesn’t always feel like compassion.

One night, I found Amos walking obsessively because it hurt to lie down. When he finally did, he lay awake, hoping for sleep because it was the only thing that wasn’t painful. I said, “It’s time.”

There is no social choreography for this. Web sites talk vaguely and extensively about feelings but share little about what you do. You make an appointment. You go to the vet, preferably early or late in the day so you won’t have to wade through a crowded waiting room. You’re given the option of handing the animal over, or “being there.” My wife and I opted to be there. My dog always loved to “go.” This was the last place he would be going, and he would jump from familiar hands when he did.

Those without pets won't understand these things, and those with healthy ones try not to imagine them. “How could I ever do that,” I used to ask myself, “after all he’s given me?” When the time comes, you do it not in spite of those things, but because of them. Our dog passed with our hands on his fur and our voices in his ear.

And, as he left, he gave me a better sense of my grandfather.