Last week I did the most difficult thing I have ever done. I took my dog, Bonnie, to the vet to be euthanised. I did it alone, while my husband and two eldest children were away - knowing they were not returning for several days. It was something that Tubs and I had been talking about since October last year, due to Bonnie’s increasing aggression and her decreasing quality of life. She was an old dog who lived to a ripe old age, for a large breed. Bonnie enjoyed good health throughout her life and was very much a part of our family, having joined Tubs and I before we were married.
In recent months, I tried unsuccessfully to get Tubs to help me make a decision. He was not able to commit to euthanizing Bonnie, but did not argue strenuously against it either. He shied away from the conversation, which was understandable; euthanasia is not a comfortable topic. However, after recent unfortunate events that saw Bonnie kill two of our chickens, coupled with discussions with friends and family about the close calls when Bonnie had nipped children as they ran by, I felt that a decision had to be made before something terrible happened.
There was never going to be a ‘good’ or ‘easy’ time to do something such as this. I chose to do it last week, when I had the rare of experience of being alone with the two youngest children for several days. Knowing I would be devastated by the process of ending Bonnie’s life, I wanted time to grieve before having to support the children to come to terms with losing their pet. I also knew, that if I involved the children in the decision to euthanize Bonnie, they would try desperately to talk me out of it. It was hard enough without that.
I made the appointment and took Bonnie to the vet. I cried all the way there, and sobbed uncontrollably from the moment I entered the clinic. The vet entered the treatment room, with a pair of clippers and a giant syringe filled with green liquid in his hand. I knew from that moment that I couldn’t stay. I was not going to be a source of comfort for Bonnie in the state I was in, and simply couldn’t pull myself together to be strong for her. I kissed her head one last time. Said good-bye. Then left.
The rest of that day, and the two that followed, were spent crying intermittently. I woke at 4am the morning after Bonnie died, my heart pounding in my chest, a sense of panic rising. I didn’t know how I was going to tell Tubs, Abby and Charlotte. I felt guilty at having taken the decision into my own hands and denying them an opportunity to say goodbye. I questioned the timing and felt selfish and guilty. I sought comfort from the ‘World Wide Web’, hoping to find a magic answer – but what I read only made me feel worse.
I realized in the days that followed that Bonnie had been a huge part of my life, and that her absence left a giant hole in my day. Every time I left the house and came home, every time I went out to the yard, every time I went to the bathroom (which is right next to our back door – right next to her kennel) – she was there. Every time I hung out the washing she greeted me and came to lie on the lawn near by. Every time Josie came outside I would have to carry her because she was scared of our big old dog. But not any more – she wasn’t there.
I felt enormous sadness, and quiet relief. Sad at her loss; that I had not been a better pet owner to her; and that I hadn’t done the best by her. Relief that my children no longer had to be afraid to enter their own backyard; that visitors and tradespeople wouldn’t fear an attack from our very protective friend. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, re-constituted and re-descended upon me. I knew however, that this new heaviness would subside with time.
When Tubs arrived home, I didn’t tell him straight away. Partly because I didn’t know how – feeling again that there was no ‘right’ or ‘good’ time. I waited for him to notice, which happened nearly 24 hours after he arrived home – and only because he wanted to tie Bonnie up so that he could let his chickens out. He barely reacted, and showed little interest in talking about it. The deed was done, he had been spared the details. Just the way he likes it.
Abby and Charlotte came home last night, four days after Tubs. I wanted to give them time to settle back in to our home before telling them about Bonnie, but planned to do it before they noticed she wasn’t around. As time rolled on, and the kids had been in and out of the house several times, I kept waiting for the moment to tell them. When they had been home nearly 24 hours, I decided to take them all for a walk - hoping it would give me courage. We exited the house via the back door, right next to Bonnie’s empty kennel. Not a word was said – no one noticed.
We spent an hour at our regular playground. Several times I almost got the courage to tell Abby, but she was so happy; chasing Josie and swinging on the swings that I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want her to associate the playground with learning about the death of our dog. When I was young, my dad took me to a playground to tell me that he was moving out of our family home and to reassure me that he would ‘always be my dad’. I sensed the irony back then, as I sat on the swing, about being in a place designed to make children happy – while receiving some of the worst news a child could receive.
The girls and I returned home. I parked the pusher in the carport, and the kids entered the back yard. It was then that the dreaded moment arrived. Abby said ‘Where is Bonnie?’ She started to call for her. Charlotte came back toward me (I was still in the car port, getting Josie out of the pusher). ‘Where is Bonnie?’ she said.
I told them I needed to ‘talk to them about that’ and tried hurriedly to get inside, feeling the panic rise again. We barely made it to the back door, Abby looked at me and said ‘What? Where is she? Not put down…no mum!’ I didn’t have to use words – my face said it all. She ran inside, straight to her bedroom. I followed her in and spent a long time on her bed with her. We both cried as the younger children came in to the room to see what was going on.
Charlotte understood exactly what had happened, and showing no discernible emotion but appearing quite thoughtful, she had just two questions for me; ‘Did they shoot her?’ and ‘Can we get another dog exactly the same as Bonnie?’ I explained the process of euthanasia and said that Bonnie had felt no pain. I said that we would not be getting another dog the same as Bonnie.
Abby cried openly, also pausing to ask me two questions; ‘When did it happen?’ and ‘Who knows?’ It was important for Abby to know how long Bonnie had been gone without her having known about it. Once she had a moment to processs that it had been a week, it became important to her to know that she wasn’t the last person to find out. I explained that it had happened a week ago, and that only a few people in our family and two close friends, knew about it. I told her that I had only told them as I was very upset and had needed their support.
I told Abby that I understood that she would feel very sad, but that with time she would feel better. She said that it would be ‘just like when her budgie died’, (who also died while Abby was away) but said she couldn’t remember his name. She tried telephoning her best friend who has many dogs (as her family breeds them), to tell her about Bonnie. Unfortunately, her friend wasn’t home. Abby went to the computer and told her cousin Joanna, via Facebook, that Bonnie was gone. It seemed an important part of Abby’s acceptance of the situation to share the news - it made it ‘real’ for her. She said nothing more about it, and quickly returned to planning her 11th birthday party – to be held in 45 sleeps time.
Charlotte expressed little emotion, but admitted to feeling sad. Lulu was very matter of fact and asked only when we could get another dog. Josie was very afraid of Bonnie and has confidently said ‘Bonnie…gone’ to me repeatedly during the past week. She doesn’t understand the permanence of Bonnie’s absence as she is simply too young to comprehend it.
I overestimated the reactions of the children to the news that Bonnie was gone. I appreciate that it is still very early days and that they have not had much time to fully process it. I am very relieved that they are not as devastated as anticipated, and thankful that I had the time and space for my own reaction. I don’t regret the decision I made, or the timing of it. I hope that I have done the best thing for my family. I genuinely felt as though I was sparing them from a heartbreak they need not endure, believing that I could bear the brunt of it for them. Only time will tell if this is true.
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