My brown dog, the end.

 (If you want to read the beginning first, it’s here.)

I woke up in dread on the day my dog, Niles, crossed the rainbow bridge.

I had gone to bed the night before knowing that the next day I was either going to discover that he had slipped away naturally or have to schedule an appointment with the vet to help him transition.

Neither outcome was desirable.

Needless to say, I had a crappy night’s sleep. I was up several times throughout the night to tiptoe past the front room where he slept, pausing in the doorway and squinting to see his ribcage rise and fall.

He’s still with us, I thought to myself, as I had reported to my kids during the previous several days.

“Can you give him some pets for me?” my middle asked. He lives and works more than an hour away in the next county.

“I hope I get to see him…” said my oldest who lives farfaraway and is planning to come home for Christmas.

Two years ago, Niles had experienced some sort of neurological episode that left him partially paralyzed on one side of his face and unsteady on his feet. Initially, he was unable to get up and walk at all, thus was incontinent. He also couldn’t eat or drink without vomiting, so I brought him to the vet at the time, thinking that it might be the end. 

“Better a month too soon than a day too late,” the vet told me, when we discussed euthanasia. (I had covered Niles’ ears for this conversation). At the same time, the vet sent me home with some anti-nausea meds and I don’t know what else. Niles made a miraculous recovery and was able to stand up, walk, and no longer vomited when he ate and drank. 

We gave him the nicknames “Squinty” or “Tilty” because of the quizzical way he looked at us and stumbled, as a result of his partial paralysis. It was cute and funny for a while (when he looked like a toddling puppy), until it wasn’t (because he resembled a sloppy drunk).

During the course of the past two years, Niles had highs and lows and seemed to have numerous additional neurological events. The highs were great, but the lows were scary, usually resulting in loss of appetite and bodily functions, and it was sad to see his personality change. Sometimes I don’t think he recognized us or where he was. It seemed like he was locked in and unreachable. 

With decreasing frequency, he barked and “frolicked” stiffly (since he had “old man” joints by that point), and the glimpses of him as a younger dog when he used to cavort in the yard with our other dogs or shred a toy, liberating the squeaker, were few and far between.

I carried him into the vet’s office several times, wondering if the end was imminent. Each time, I emerged with prescriptions and hope. Each time Niles rebounded from whatever ailed him – an ear infection, a UTI, a tumor. But not the last time.

He had a mouth infection and his whole face was swollen. He spent a weekend just lying around, not eating much, but still drinking water and stumbling out the front door (which had only three very wide steps) to potty. He had been unable to use the stairs for some time, and the front door had the fewest steps and widest landing.

I later found out that when I carried him Niles the doctor’s office that Monday morning, the vet thought it was time. But, holding out hope, I carried him back out with antibiotics, pain meds, probiotics, and a can of special dog food to use to administer all the meds.

That day he took his first two doses of medications and slept. I carried him outside to potty. I slept on the couch next to him. I played healing frequencies and instrumental Christmas hymns on my little Bluetooth speaker.

The next day, I had to tuck meatballs in his cheek and massage his throat. When I carried him out to potty, he peed on me before I could set him down. He slept. The other pets gave him a wide berth. It was then that I knew the end was coming.

In my experience with pets, I have noticed that they tend to hide, seek a safe space, or want to be left alone when they are ready to die. My dog couldn’t do any of those because he couldn’t walk anymore.

The other pets could sense that Niles wanted to be alone and gave him that respect. Their doing that helped me come to the realization that it was time to provide comfort measures, and to forget about how *I* might feel about anything. I had to consider what was in the best interests of my dog, which was not acting sad or trying to jolly him into responding to me. Though he might raise an ear or an eyebrow, he could no longer wag his tail.

I freshened Niles’ bed in my office area, put potty pads under his body, and placed a squeak toy next to his pillow, but he had no interest. I decided I would give him as much privacy as possible, not hanging around in the room except to work (no sleeping on the couch, no watching TV), and only repositioning him and tucking a blankie around his back legs, which were immobile and cold, when I changed the potty pads. During one of these changes, the contents of his stomach emptied.

It was then that I decided that if he didn’t pass naturally on his own that night that I would call the vet. There was no way I was going to let him starve to death or be in pain: since he wasn’t eating, I couldn’t give him any medication. I wasn’t going to force him to eat if his body could no longer handle digestion or for whatever reason he was rejecting food. And that brings us back to the beginning of this story.

I scheduled the appointment for later that afternoon and informed the kids.

“Thank you for letting me know,” my youngest said. He still lives at home and had witnessed the same decline as I had.

Oldest replied, “Give him a big hug for me. I will miss him.” (Oldest is the one who made a PowerPoint presentation at age 11, titled, “Why I need a dog.” And this is exactly why we had a dog.)

Middle lamented, “Ugh, I should have come home yesterday. Can you please tell him that I love him very much.”

My husband decided he would accompany us to the appointment after all. I wrapped Niles in a fresh blanket and my husband carried him out to the car. They sat in the back together on the way to the doctor’s office. The doctor already had the table in the back room set up and ready with a soft blanket.

I loved my dog. He was my big baby boy. It was hard to let him go but I know it was the right and merciful thing to do. I turned on the instrumental Christmas hymns on my Spotify app. I whispered in Niles’ ear that he was a good boy and my favorite boy dog and it was okay to go nunnight. And with the help of some medications, he slipped peacefully away into eternal sleep.

Before I could send a message to my kids, I received this from my oldest:

“How did everything go today? Are you ok?”

It reminded me of when my mother passed and I had to call the kids from the hospital to tell them.  My oldest was eight years old then, and he had asked me the same question.

My brother and I had to make the decision to remove our mother’s life support a few days after she succumbed to a sudden, incapacitating illness and was comatose. I brought that memory to mind several times during the course of Niles’ final decline. I wouldn’t wish that decision or experience on anyone, but because I had been forced to make that decision for my mother, I knew I could handle the decision for my dog.

My middle, “How are you doing? Let me know if you need anything.”

Then all my kids texted me their favorite pictures of Niles and we shared memories about the day we brought him home and who sat with him in the back and sent laughing emojis about how we had to carry him inside because he didn’t know how to use the stairs yet.

My middle concluded: “Thanks for picking such a wonderful dog to be around us while growing up.”

My brown dog, part one

Here's a story from when I first adopted my pibble, in 2012. I am still working on part two, about how I had to make the decision to help him transition peacefully over "the rainbow bridge," (which occurred just yesterday.) *Update: here is part two.

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"What kind of dog is he?"

"A brown one."

This is the answer I started to give people when they asked me about my dog, Niles.

I got tired of them recoiling in horror when I told them he's a pit bull, mere moments after they've pet him and told me how cute and well mannered he is. It's what I told the nanny that works down the street who wrinkled her nose, sniffed, and pursed her lips when she commented in her exotic Slavic accent, "Heez ed. Eet iss soh beeg. Vy eez heez ed soh beeg? Vuht kindoff dohg eez e?" (When I really wanted to tell her, "Your mouth. It is so big. Why is your mouth so big? What kind of person are you?").

Most people don't even know what a pit bull is. That is because a “pit bull” is not a breed, but a term used to describe three different breeds with similar characteristics: American PitBull Terrier, American Staffordshire Terrier, and Staffordshire Bull Terriers.

People have asked, "Why would you get a dog like that!?" Implying that I must be stupid for putting my children at risk for being mauled and eaten alive by this brutal, savage monster that the media portrays him and "his kind" to be.

"Pit bulls are good family dogs," I tell people. "Did you know Petey from the Little Rascals was an American Pit Bull Terrier?" or "The Pit Bull was so respected in the early 1900's that the US Military chose an image of a Pit Bull to represent our country on war posters." or "The Pit Bull is the only dog to have ever graced the cover of  Life Magazine three times." or "Pit Bulls were also used in advertising campaigns for Buster Brown shoes. Remember those?"

People did not know that. Most people only know what they've heard about dog fighting. Before the pit bull, it was Rottweilers that were the bad guys. Before that, Doberman Pincers or German Shepherds. But people, you're looking at the wrong end of the leash. Dogs are the way they are because of the way they are socialized (or not). How many parents would expect their children to know how to behave appropriately without guidance? It is the same for dogs. They are a responsibility and they need to be educated.

I wouldn't have picked a dog like this if I hadn't done my homework. When you agree to adopt a pit bull (and there are just so many of them that need homes), you are educated first. You sleep on the decision. You know you will be facing discrimination. You commit to training the dog. You commit to treating it as one of the family. The only history I had about Niles is the blog his foster mother kept. After several conversations and an introduction, I knew he was good with cats and I knew he was good with kids.

When we first brought him home, he did not know how to use the stairs. He still won't go into the basement. Even though he looks like a he-man type dog (yes, he does have that big head as well as broad shoulders and a big chest), he has a voice like a squeak-toy, when he chooses to use it, which is not often -- usually when he is protesting being alone or inviting the cat to play with him, but rarely when someone comes to the door.

When my veterinarian asked me why I chose a dog like this, I knew she was genuinely curious and not scornful.

"To tell you the truth," I said, "and you can call me shallow...but it was his picture. Oh, and after I read his story..."

"You got a good one," she told me.