Worth Every Tear

I sat up with that golden retriever after his first surgery, stayed with him on my own time until past 10pm. I held his head in my lap and sat on the cold, hard floor outside of his cage because the doctor was worried about him. He'd been under anesthesia for so long, and was slow to wake up. Painful. Listless. So I sat with him, while his owners slept home in their beds, knowing their pet was being lovingly cared for. He did so well for a little while, until he began to gnaw at his abdomen again. Inflammation and infection set in, surgery number two to remove the dying tissue was a success. Until he started getting sick again. Specialists were called, cultures were done, every blood test analyzed by an army of doctors. Surgery number three would certainly do the trick, surely the infected tissue could be removed. But there was so much. To get it all would mean a long and painful recovery, above and beyond what he had already suffered. Relapse was possible, even probable. Rather than put him through any more, the owners chose to give their dog a peaceful end as payment for years of unwavering love and loyalty. They came in with their children to say goodbye while he was still under anesthesia. The kids gave him kisses, stroked his head, held his paw. I was struck by their bravery, with their gritted teeth, chin in the air, tears falling silently. The father broke down, head buried in his dog's ruff, choking back sobs. And then the mother, bravest of them all. She encased her family in one big hug (how do mother's do this? Offer comfort and healing all at once? Become larger than life?), and though misty-eyed, never let her comforting words waver, never allowed her voice to crack. She told her children how special they were, because by loving their dog so much, they had made memories that would last forever, that they could hold inside their hearts. Because of them, she said, their dog would live forever. With a kiss, and a final pet, she ushered them out the door, seeming to hold her three children and her husband in one embrace. I feel privileged to have been a part of such a moving scene, and honored that I shared a part of this wonderful dog's life.

Still teary-eyed, one of the doctors grabbed me to help them in another exam room. A fifteen year old cat was losing his battle with cancer, and his elderly gentleman owner had decided that the time was right to let him go. I went in to greet the scrappy cat who I'd met many times before, and to check on his heartbroken owner. He is an old-fashioned man, well mannered and stoic, a throwback to the 1930's when men were the stern, unemotional heads of the household and nothing more. He gruffly accepted what was about to happen, and stroked his cat's tumor-scarred head while the doctor gently explained each step of the euthanasia. When she confirmed that cat's heart had stopped, he accepted this fact with a jerk of his head. As I cradled his cat close to me, he turned away... and fell apart. Sobs wracked his frail body, a grief too deep and personal to share. This cat was the last family this man had left, and now he was gone. Respectfully, we set out tissue and stepped back, instinctively knowing that any further gesture would insult his pride. Once he was composed, he turned and left empty-handed, just as stoically as he had come in.

Do you know why working with animals is so damned heart-wrenching? Every animal we see ultimately has an owner. It might be the beloved pet of a whole family, one person or someone who found him five minutes ago. There are two sides to the story- in front of you is the animal who is suffering, sometimes horrendously. Your heart tears in half at the sight as you struggle to follow doctor's orders while also providing a comforting touch. Right next to that animal is an owner, willing the life back into their best friend with all of their might. Tearfully begging him to hang on, fight back, promising cheese or new toys, whatever he wants if he just hangs on. While these moments are so special and so real, they hurt. They tear you apart. So why do I continue to do what I do? Because the poor pet has no idea what is going on, but no matter what kind of pain he is in, or confusion he feels, there is always some kind of response to his beloved human's voice. How many times have I seen a near-lifeless animal lift his head at the sound of his owner's steps? Touch? More than I can count. It's the times that do they bounce back, against all odds, that make days like today worth every tear.


But just barely.