Euthanasia
It was time to put Apollo, the dog, to sleep. The whole family agreed. We sat around the living room and came to the conclusion that he would be happier. Admittedly this was hard for us to know. The dog’s back was badly misshapen with arthritis. He was mostly blind and completely deaf. He yapped at imaginary foes intermittently during his waking hours as if trying to ward off demons. Worst of all, he was beginning to become incontinent of feces and urine, a sure sign that his body was failing and a burden for the family who watched over him.
Apollo was a Pug dog. Although they do come completely in black Apollo had a black face, tan body, and the characteristic pushed in nose of the breed. This nose gave him a flat face and made it difficult for Apollo to breath. He wheezed and snorted when he got excited. Although Apollo was the name of a Greek God, the dog had flaws even within the ugliness of his type. His tongue was too long and the tip stuck out of his mouth even when the dog tried to retract it. A Pug dog’s tail should appear in a tight curl according to the dog books but Apollo’s tail often stood straight out. Finally, Apollo had only one testicle, surely an embarrassment for his namesake.
For many years Apollo had been the family’s protector, and love object. The dog in a way was like his family, purebred though imperfect. He was beautiful in his ugliness and had character. My sister Ruth loved him the best. I think he loved her the best, too. He always came running to her when she walked into a room even when he supposedly had cataracts and couldn’t see. Maybe he had a sixth sense which transcended his other five.
For fifteen years Apollo had provided a focal point for my sister, my mother, and myself; the family. “How’s the dog?” “Walk the dog!” “Feed the dog.” For fifteen years we shared caring for him. For all of the dog’s life and an important part of ours we were family. Neither my sister nor I lived at home anymore. We were both in our twenties, grown up and independent. Time has a way of changing families. Ruth and I seldom spoke anymore. Most of the dog’s nurturing fell to my mother who was a nurturer by nature. But there was no escaping it as we sat on the living room couch looking over at the dog. He was ready and probably in pain. We were being humane.
The task of driving Apollo to the veterinarian belonged to Ruth and me. Ruth held Apollo and petted him as we drove along the highway. He was no trouble. It was winter, cold and sleeting. Pieces of ice collected on the windshield and shone white against the street lights of the night. It was difficult to see through the wet. I wiped the windshield, then my eyes.
When we arrived at the vet the nurse first began to make a fuss over Apollo. “What a cute little dog!” she said. Her colleague looked over and gave her a sign. She knew now, why we were there and said no more. The vet came out and took the dog from Ruth’s arms.
“I want to see you do it,” Ruth said.
“Why?” asked the vet.
“I don’t want you taking him and selling him to some laboratory for experiments,” she replied. This seemed an unreasonable fear to me but I said nothing. Perhaps Ruth felt guilty about giving over the trusting Apollo. Her guilt showed in her mistrust of the vet.
The vet looked thoughtful and said, “It’s O.K. if you want to watch, but I have to warn you that sometimes when we put the animals to sleep they convulse vomit, and bleed. If you want to watch though, it’s O.K.”
Ruth considered these images and decided to let the vet work alone. He came out seconds after he went in and said, “It’s over. You can take a last look at him if you want to.”
Ruth and I walked to the doorway of the death room and saw our childhood pet lying lifelessly on his side. We walked out into the waiting room, looked at each other, hugged and cried in each others’ arms.
I haven’t felt so close to Ruth before or since. I haven’t heard from her. She doesn’t talk to anyone in the family anymore.
