Good-bye Dear Friend
We found Noah while stranded in New York in 2003.
We had just moved into our new Purcellville, Virginia home, the one with the 5+ acres of yard that was finally big enough to accommodate a dog. That’s what we had told the girls all along anyway, when they begged us for a dog when we lived in a townhouse with no yard of which to speak. We had traveled to New York State and were staying with my sister when a blizzard dropped 2 feet of snow on the Washington, DC area. New York was fine, but we couldn’t get a flight back into DC!
So, we spent some of the time on the Internet, looking at pet rescue sites and learning about dogs. That was the first time we saw Noah, a large, black-n-tan German Shepherd, posed in the photo in front of a Christmas fireplace, with a puffy long-haired cat next to him. We found some dogs we liked, and inquired. We quickly found that rescue dogs were not like “pound” dogs, where the people holding them were just glad for someone to take the dog off their hands. No, we had to apply for the dog, and go through interviews and in more than one case, the temporary owner said no to us because we worked during the day, and they felt that the dog needed “stay at home parenting.”
Finally, as we worked with the German Shepherd Rescue in Virginia, telling them about our experience (and lack thereof) with owning a dog, about our hopes, our means and resources, they said, “You need a Starter Dog. Have you seen Noah?” A “starter dog” is one who has already been trained and so would be easy on us! Noah, unlike many other rescues, was never abused, was not abandoned, was not sick. He lived with the owners who chose him from a breeder’s litter and raised him from a pup, and, because their lives had changed so much, they realized that with two children (ages two and newborn), and with Dad being gone 16 hours a day and on business travel often, Noah just wasn’t getting the attention he deserved. So, they bravely said, “IF and only if, we can find the right family, we will give him up so he can have a better life.” They, too, turned down some applicants.
We went to their house to visit Noah. We liked each other, and learned that day how much he loved to chase yellow tennis balls. Next, the owners brought Noah out to our house for a trial visit. One look at the yard and his owner said he knew was in the right place. Visiting for a couple hours, Noah seemed comfortable and we all got along, so they felt even better about us. The last test was to have Noah come stay for a weekend. I remember his happy face and how neat it was to have him. It was a match, and we adopted Noah in April of 2003.
Noah was the son of champion AKC certified dogs. He was 7 ½ years old. His dad’s name was “CH Valmy’s Nightcap Stoneway” and his mom was “Campaigner’s Glitz of Hisierra.” Noah’s full name was “Campaigner’s Noah Day-O-Data.” I kid you not.
One of the strangest things for us when he first came to live with us was the noise he created in our previously quiet house – loud slurping when he ate and drank! The clomping across the hardwood floors. My best memories of him were his joy at chasing tennis balls. He would run with those powerful legs and leap in the air to catch the ball before it hit the ground. Each time he accomplished that feat, he would do a little Vinnie Barbarino or Arthur Fonzerelli strut of pride with the ball in his mouth! He seemed to be willing to chase balls forever, but, we found that since he had been living a sedentary life at his previous home, his muscles ached after those workouts. It took him awhile to get used to the exercise, but he loved it. And it was good for him. He came to us weighing 112 pounds, which was overweight, and he trimmed down to 95 in no time. We had a cat, Hailey, when we brought Noah home. Noah used to groom his old cat roommate with his tongue till she was covered with slobber and had a cat mohawk. So he was very happy to approach Hailey in his big, goofy way. Hailey would have none of it and drew blood within days, raking her claws across his nose! It took a couple years, but they worked it out, and I actually have photos of them sleeping together on Noah’s big circle sheepskin dog bed.
We didn’t know that at 7 years old, Noah was already pretty old for a German Shepherd, because their average lifespan is only 8 or 9. Sure enough, at 9 years old, he became lame. One day, he just couldn’t walk. Of course, this happened on a national holiday, so the emergency visit to the vet was that much more dramatic. After hundreds of dollars of tests, we learned that there was arthritis, and probably some myelopathy present, which is the degeneration of the spinal cord, and the sheath that covers the nerves. We were told that this condition would deteriorate at a slow rate, but when it happened, there would be nothing we could do for him. The good news for us was that the present diagnosis was a bad disc in his back which could be corrected with surgery. I guess that’s where we could have drawn the line, but instead, we drew our check book and got him the surgery. He recovered and we had our tennis ball-chasing, joyful Noah back in about 6 weeks, although he never regained all his vigor. He was happy, though, and we were glad to have our pal back in good health.
Noah would climb the stairs and preferred to sleep in our bedroom on his dog bed in the corner. We learned to get used to his snoring and licking and other night noises. He was a guard dog; he took his responsibility seriously; so there was no way he was going to let us out of his sight at night. In the morning he would nudge Gil with his wet doggy nose and encourage him to get up and take him outside for a walk. Years later, when Noah couldn’t make it up the stairs any longer, he slept on his bed in my office and he would howl in the morning if Gil was taking too long to get up. I always thought this was a good arrangement: one old man getting another old man out for exercise every day. They’d go across the street to his favorite lanes and fields. Or they’d walk the back acres where they would “say hello” to the horses in the back yard.
Having Noah meant I could get out for exercise too. I’ll never forget how just by going outside to give him a little playtime would allow me to catch some of the most beautiful sunsets. He was patient when I’d drop everything, including his tennis ball, and run inside to get the camera. Having Noah around meant that I had a shadow. In the house, it seemed he was with me, at my knee, in front of me everywhere I walked. If I sat down, he hovered near me. He might lie down and even pretend to doze. But, if I so much as moved a butt cheek to shift in my chair, he was up and at attention. It was as if he thought I was going to produce the most glorious experiences, and he was determined to get a front row seat. I suppose that’s because I’m the main cook in the family. I handled all the meat, the juices, the trimmings, the gravy, the leftovers, the dinner dishes with yummy slime on them. In short, I was the source of the goods. So, he “loved me best.”
Beyond the obvious sell-out-for-food personality, he also seemed to have some genuine affection for us. I love to garden, and Noah would howl inside until someone let him come out and be with me. No food involved, just protecting the mistress. He’d find a shady spot when it was hot, a sunny spot when it was cold, and just keep me company. When I moved, he moved. If I collapsed in the hammock, he would tuck in underneath it. When I watered the flowers he wanted to drink from the hose. I’d get feisty and spray him with the hose and drive him crazy. If I sat reading in the green room, he would be there at my feet, in front of the fireplace. When I sat in the rocker on the front porch, just to enjoy the air, the birds and the lush scenery, he would be there, lying on the porch, with the slants of shade and light hitting his back, answering the calls of the roosters across the road with his own howling or barking in answer to a hunter's gun report in the distance.
So, our “starter dog” over the years did turn out to be just right. We knew little about raising or maintaining a dog. Noah was already raised, so he listened to commands, went to the woods to do his business, stayed, sat and lay down when we said. He even understood and obeyed, “Out of the kitchen!” which Mary swears she taught him, but I’d bet his previous mistress yelled often.
At 8 years old Noah played. At 9 he had surgery and made a good recovery. At 10 we noticed him slowing, but, so were we, so that was a good match. At 11, he was more demonstrably dragging his back legs and finally did not have enough strength to haul himself safely up and down our long stairs. He maintained a dignity and happiness, though. He just modified his routines – slept downstairs, took shorter walks. Still loved to ride in the car with me, though he needed help getting in! At 12, he slowed even more, and I confess that when we boarded him for our week’s Spring vacation, I was secretly scared we’d come back and find something awful had happened to him. In May, the symptoms from his slow deterioration became more pronounced, and when I heard Gil tell me his morning walk was walk-three-steps, sit-down, repeat; and when I noticed he would gather up all his courage just to lunge down the hallway, willing his back legs to follow, I decided I needed to “make preparations.”
It was a Friday. I had taken June 20 off of work as a personal day in anticipation of going to the National Cathedral for some training I needed in order to support our church in a program they wanted to offer this fall. Well, as the day approached, about a day or two before the 20th, I was told the training was off; there would be no program this fall. Maybe next year. Normally I would simply have gone into work but I thought, no, this would be a good time to take Noah to the vet. I called and made the appointment for the 20th. I presented Noah’s symptoms and how they had progressed. I knew there was no cure, but I wanted confirmation of the direction and ultimate resolution of it all – what should I expect over the next few weeks? Months? I couldn’t ask the hard questions without crying, so I just announced that I was going to cry now, and that’s the only way I could talk about these things. The vet was patient and kind and answered all my questions.
The vet confirmed that we were approaching “the end,” a time when most compassionate owners give their pet the last gift of kindness and that is to let them go when their quality of life is so bad. She explained to me how “it” was done, what my options were, and the receptionist gave me print-outs from a pet grieving support site and a link to the Rainbow Bridge poem, hugged me, and it made me cry.
I had to leave Noah in the examining room for several minutes before I took him back out of the office while I begged paper towels, plastic bag and cleaning spray from the office to go out to my car and clean up the huge, creamy dump that had been baking in my car in the 90 degree heat while I was in the vet’s office. Yes, after lifting him into my car, he dumped a big pile on the seat for me. This was just one of the increasingly troublesome symptoms he experienced when the signals from the head or organs could not make their way to his hind quarters, so he couldn’t control himself, since he didn’t feel it coming! We had been cleaning up like this all over the house, no matter whether we let him outside two or twenty times a day. Thank goodness, he could still sense urination, and he did that outside.
So, that was Friday. I came home from the appointment shaken, and crying. I told the family it was nearing the end. They didn’t quite believe me, because, being so close to him, seeing him day in and day out, the progression of his symptoms was hard to distinguish. It happened so slowly, they got used to it. But I knew. Saturday, he had a great day, running around, even playing with a tennis ball, which he was very pitiful trying to chase, but he still liked to try. And if I threw it just right, he might be able to catch it, at which point he looked so proud, and promptly quit the game, saying, “I’m done! I’m great. Nothing else to prove.”
Sunday was not so good. He didn’t eat much and seemed completely worn out. He didn’t get up to greet us in the morning and he lay around most of the day. Didn’t want to go outside. He urinated on the carpet for the first time.
Monday he didn’t want to move. He started throwing up. He was pooping everywhere. He wasn’t eating. We called the vet. They said this was not good, and could we bring him in? The answer was no, when we tried to lift him he was too heavy and unwieldy and he seemed to cry in pain. They said they would send vet to us then, Tuesday, if he did not improve overnight.
Tuesday came and I was due at all day training in Reston. This was nice because Reston is a lot closer to home than my usual daily 90-minute bus commute into DC. When I got up Tuesday morning, Noah did not rise to greet me. As I made “kitchen noises” with food, which always aroused him, he stayed put on his bed, panting. When Gil offered to take him for his morning walk, he was not interested.
I left for Reston. I got to the hotel early. I parked in front of a line of trees and turned off the car then set my phone alarm for 20 minutes while I centered myself in prayer. When I was finished I went into the hotel and looked for my class. And looked some more. And checked my confirmation papers. And checked with the concierge, who kindly pointed out that the confirmation was for a class on JULY 24, not JUNE 24. Oh. Okay then. Decision – drive in to work, where there was a presentation someone was filling in for in my absence? Or drive back home and telework for the day? I thought of Noah. I drove home.
On the days I telework, Noah lies on his bed behind my chair. He always just wants to be near me. So, on this day, when he wasn’t feeling well, I thought it would comfort him (and me) to have me there in my chair near him. On any normal weekday, Noah sacks out on the floor and happily sleeps half the day away. On this day, he did not put his head down. He did not close his eyes. He did not sleep. He lay tentatively, panting and wretching, unable to move. His back legs were still completely and totally lame. He had not pooped or peed for maybe 14 hours or more, but he could not move. He would not eat. I even offered to let him lick warm beef gravy from a lunch bowl. Not interested. I put his tennis ball in front of him. Nothing. I offered him water every hour and he drank.
When I finished with my work day around 4:30, I sat down next to Noah on the floor. I talked to him in soothing tones, comforting him, stroking his head and muzzle. His eyes half-closed in thanks and pleasure or anxiety. I pet him and spent time with him. I asked him to please “tell me” if this was his time to go, to “tell me” that it was okay and that he wanted to be let go. I didn’t “hear” anything. I told him what a good dog he has been and thanked him for loving me SO much, for his devotion. I thanked him for protecting me and looking out for me all the time and for keeping me company. I told him how happy I was to have him in our life and what a handsome, gentlemanly, and special dog he was.
The vet called and said he’d be out around 8:30. Over the next few hours, the family returned home – Mary around 7:00. Gil around 8:30. The vet came shortly thereafter. He took one look at Noah and knew; he saw the obvious that had come on so suddenly (or so slowly we didn’t notice it, I’m not sure which) that we didn’t completely know. This was the end. His body was shutting down. His muscle mass was depleted. He weighed 75 pounds. He wasn’t leaving before he put this dog down. It was the only right thing to do.
He gave him a sedative and went out to his truck to wait and to give us time alone to say good-bye. He said, “This is not what I ‘signed up for,’ and I never get used to it. But, I did say I would work to relieve the suffering of animals, so I can do this.” I will never forget watching Noah as the sedative took effect. This wonderful dog, who had been panting in confused desperation and discomfort all day finally, finally put his head down on his front paws and closed his big dark eyes. His face looked soft and quiet and at peace. Finally.
Then, knowing the next injection would stop his heart, I could not watch. I left the room, but heard every word, and tears flowed while I waited in the living room. I heard them confirm his heart had stopped. I heard Mary and Seattle sniff with tears. I heard the vet say he’d carry him out to the truck. I couldn’t watch that either. It was 9:15 p.m. My Noah was gone.
I’ve never gone through this before, and wasn’t sure what the appropriate protocol was. I wrote a quick announcement in a blog and sent it out to family members.
The next morning, I got dressed and got in the car to drive to my commuter bus stop in Hamilton. As I approached the lot, I was crying so hard, I thought, “I can’t do this,” and I drove right past the lot. I found a used car lot in Hamilton and turned around in it. I made a call to my boss’s cell phone at 6:00 in the morning and got her voice-mail. I left a tortured message about how I would not be able to come in today…needed a mental health day… was a mess…Then I erased it. I tried again, but it still came out pathetic, so I erased it again. I hung up. I drove back to the commuter lot. As I approached, I saw a bus arriving and once again I was crying so hard, I drove right past. Now I’m in Purcellville. Get a grip, Carrie! I made a U-Turn in the middle of Purcellville and headed back to the commuter lot. This time I turned in, parked the car, got out and waited for another bus, glad that early morning commuters are only half awake, so no one noticed or cared that I was crying.
Life at work wasn’t much better. God help those poor souls who ventured a cheerful, “How are you this morning??” and heard my honest reaction. People were kind. They had been through this before. My staff gave me a sweet card and signed it with supportive words. I checked the blog I had written the night before, and messages of comfort were coming in from complete strangers who knew exactly what I was going through and who shared intimate and beautiful stories of pain and healing with me. It was heartening, and I made it through the work day.
On the trip home I was grateful for the impersonal, isolated nature of the DC commuters, who, even though I was sitting in close proximity to several, on a full bus, did not notice that I was falling apart as tears streamed down my face for a half hour straight. I got a phone call from my son, who wanted to come by to pay his respects and comfort us. “Okay,” I said.
I had written in my blog, “He greeted me whenever I came home, and waited patiently for me on the porch, a protective sentry and guardian. … Noah, you always waited for me. Alone. Vigilant. Ready to love me. Now you've moved on to heaven. Please wait for me there.” Well when I got home and looked to the house, there at the end of the long driveway, on the porch was my son, with a bouquet of flowers in hand. “I am your sentry and guardian waiting on the porch now. I wanted you to have a memory of me, now that Noah is not here to wait for you.” He held me tight and said comforting things while I cried and made his shirt all wet. We were the only ones home. He had brought dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook. He got it ready.
People started arriving home from work, first Mary, then Lara with Seattle, finally Gil. My whole family was there and we ate the dinner he brought and sat around our big table on the patio talking and laughing as the sun set and the fireflies came out with their magical dancing. It was like a good Irish wake and made a huge difference in our being able to cope that first night, when Noah’s death was not yet 24 hours past.
A friend asked me last night, “How was it when you had to come home, entering the house, after he died?” She said that was the hardest thing for her when her dog died. She didn’t want to go in, since he would not be there to greet her…. I think Ian completely short-circuited that type of response for me by being there waiting for me on the porch that first night. He successfully replaced the memory with a new, powerful one of him and a son’s devotion. I have no problem arriving home, walking in the house. Thank you, Ian.
It’s been a week and an hour now, as I write this, since Noah departed from this very room. One night shortly after he died, I was lying in bed, still wanting to reach out and communicate with him somehow, and as I wearied of the silence, I realized there was a song playing over and over in my head, with the words, “Did you get my message?” Oh. I thought. There is a message! So, I quieted myself and listened to Noah as I re-played his last moments as he closed his eyes, and this is what I heard: “I needed to sleep, and oh, man, that was the best sleep I’ve ever had! …I miss you.”
I miss you too, Noah. Love you.
Copyright (c) 2008
We had just moved into our new Purcellville, Virginia home, the one with the 5+ acres of yard that was finally big enough to accommodate a dog. That’s what we had told the girls all along anyway, when they begged us for a dog when we lived in a townhouse with no yard of which to speak. We had traveled to New York State and were staying with my sister when a blizzard dropped 2 feet of snow on the Washington, DC area. New York was fine, but we couldn’t get a flight back into DC!
So, we spent some of the time on the Internet, looking at pet rescue sites and learning about dogs. That was the first time we saw Noah, a large, black-n-tan German Shepherd, posed in the photo in front of a Christmas fireplace, with a puffy long-haired cat next to him. We found some dogs we liked, and inquired. We quickly found that rescue dogs were not like “pound” dogs, where the people holding them were just glad for someone to take the dog off their hands. No, we had to apply for the dog, and go through interviews and in more than one case, the temporary owner said no to us because we worked during the day, and they felt that the dog needed “stay at home parenting.”
Finally, as we worked with the German Shepherd Rescue in Virginia, telling them about our experience (and lack thereof) with owning a dog, about our hopes, our means and resources, they said, “You need a Starter Dog. Have you seen Noah?” A “starter dog” is one who has already been trained and so would be easy on us! Noah, unlike many other rescues, was never abused, was not abandoned, was not sick. He lived with the owners who chose him from a breeder’s litter and raised him from a pup, and, because their lives had changed so much, they realized that with two children (ages two and newborn), and with Dad being gone 16 hours a day and on business travel often, Noah just wasn’t getting the attention he deserved. So, they bravely said, “IF and only if, we can find the right family, we will give him up so he can have a better life.” They, too, turned down some applicants. We went to their house to visit Noah. We liked each other, and learned that day how much he loved to chase yellow tennis balls. Next, the owners brought Noah out to our house for a trial visit. One look at the yard and his owner said he knew was in the right place. Visiting for a couple hours, Noah seemed comfortable and we all got along, so they felt even better about us. The last test was to have Noah come stay for a weekend. I remember his happy face and how neat it was to have him. It was a match, and we adopted Noah in April of 2003.
Noah was the son of champion AKC certified dogs. He was 7 ½ years old. His dad’s name was “CH Valmy’s Nightcap Stoneway” and his mom was “Campaigner’s Glitz of Hisierra.” Noah’s full name was “Campaigner’s Noah Day-O-Data.” I kid you not.
One of the strangest things for us when he first came to live with us was the noise he created in our previously quiet house – loud slurping when he ate and drank! The clomping across the hardwood floors. My best memories of him were his joy at chasing tennis balls. He would run with those powerful legs and leap in the air to catch the ball before it hit the ground. Each time he accomplished that feat, he would do a little Vinnie Barbarino or Arthur Fonzerelli strut of pride with the ball in his mouth! He seemed to be willing to chase balls forever, but, we found that since he had been living a sedentary life at his previous home, his muscles ached after those workouts. It took him awhile to get used to the exercise, but he loved it. And it was good for him. He came to us weighing 112 pounds, which was overweight, and he trimmed down to 95 in no time. We had a cat, Hailey, when we brought Noah home. Noah used to groom his old cat roommate with his tongue till she was covered with slobber and had a cat mohawk. So he was very happy to approach Hailey in his big, goofy way. Hailey would have none of it and drew blood within days, raking her claws across his nose! It took a couple years, but they worked it out, and I actually have photos of them sleeping together on Noah’s big circle sheepskin dog bed. We didn’t know that at 7 years old, Noah was already pretty old for a German Shepherd, because their average lifespan is only 8 or 9. Sure enough, at 9 years old, he became lame. One day, he just couldn’t walk. Of course, this happened on a national holiday, so the emergency visit to the vet was that much more dramatic. After hundreds of dollars of tests, we learned that there was arthritis, and probably some myelopathy present, which is the degeneration of the spinal cord, and the sheath that covers the nerves. We were told that this condition would deteriorate at a slow rate, but when it happened, there would be nothing we could do for him. The good news for us was that the present diagnosis was a bad disc in his back which could be corrected with surgery. I guess that’s where we could have drawn the line, but instead, we drew our check book and got him the surgery. He recovered and we had our tennis ball-chasing, joyful Noah back in about 6 weeks, although he never regained all his vigor. He was happy, though, and we were glad to have our pal back in good health. Noah would climb the stairs and preferred to sleep in our bedroom on his dog bed in the corner. We learned to get used to his snoring and licking and other night noises. He was a guard dog; he took his responsibility seriously; so there was no way he was going to let us out of his sight at night. In the morning he would nudge Gil with his wet doggy nose and encourage him to get up and take him outside for a walk. Years later, when Noah couldn’t make it up the stairs any longer, he slept on his bed in my office and he would howl in the morning if Gil was taking too long to get up. I always thought this was a good arrangement: one old man getting another old man out for exercise every day. They’d go across the street to his favorite lanes and fields. Or they’d walk the back acres where they would “say hello” to the horses in the back yard.
Having Noah meant I could get out for exercise too. I’ll never forget how just by going outside to give him a little playtime would allow me to catch some of the most beautiful sunsets. He was patient when I’d drop everything, including his tennis ball, and run inside to get the camera. Having Noah around meant that I had a shadow. In the house, it seemed he was with me, at my knee, in front of me everywhere I walked. If I sat down, he hovered near me. He might lie down and even pretend to doze. But, if I so much as moved a butt cheek to shift in my chair, he was up and at attention. It was as if he thought I was going to produce the most glorious experiences, and he was determined to get a front row seat. I suppose that’s because I’m the main cook in the family. I handled all the meat, the juices, the trimmings, the gravy, the leftovers, the dinner dishes with yummy slime on them. In short, I was the source of the goods. So, he “loved me best.” Beyond the obvious sell-out-for-food personality, he also seemed to have some genuine affection for us. I love to garden, and Noah would howl inside until someone let him come out and be with me. No food involved, just protecting the mistress. He’d find a shady spot when it was hot, a sunny spot when it was cold, and just keep me company. When I moved, he moved. If I collapsed in the hammock, he would tuck in underneath it. When I watered the flowers he wanted to drink from the hose. I’d get feisty and spray him with the hose and drive him crazy. If I sat reading in the green room, he would be there at my feet, in front of the fireplace. When I sat in the rocker on the front porch, just to enjoy the air, the birds and the lush scenery, he would be there, lying on the porch, with the slants of shade and light hitting his back, answering the calls of the roosters across the road with his own howling or barking in answer to a hunter's gun report in the distance.
So, our “starter dog” over the years did turn out to be just right. We knew little about raising or maintaining a dog. Noah was already raised, so he listened to commands, went to the woods to do his business, stayed, sat and lay down when we said. He even understood and obeyed, “Out of the kitchen!” which Mary swears she taught him, but I’d bet his previous mistress yelled often. At 8 years old Noah played. At 9 he had surgery and made a good recovery. At 10 we noticed him slowing, but, so were we, so that was a good match. At 11, he was more demonstrably dragging his back legs and finally did not have enough strength to haul himself safely up and down our long stairs. He maintained a dignity and happiness, though. He just modified his routines – slept downstairs, took shorter walks. Still loved to ride in the car with me, though he needed help getting in! At 12, he slowed even more, and I confess that when we boarded him for our week’s Spring vacation, I was secretly scared we’d come back and find something awful had happened to him. In May, the symptoms from his slow deterioration became more pronounced, and when I heard Gil tell me his morning walk was walk-three-steps, sit-down, repeat; and when I noticed he would gather up all his courage just to lunge down the hallway, willing his back legs to follow, I decided I needed to “make preparations.”
It was a Friday. I had taken June 20 off of work as a personal day in anticipation of going to the National Cathedral for some training I needed in order to support our church in a program they wanted to offer this fall. Well, as the day approached, about a day or two before the 20th, I was told the training was off; there would be no program this fall. Maybe next year. Normally I would simply have gone into work but I thought, no, this would be a good time to take Noah to the vet. I called and made the appointment for the 20th. I presented Noah’s symptoms and how they had progressed. I knew there was no cure, but I wanted confirmation of the direction and ultimate resolution of it all – what should I expect over the next few weeks? Months? I couldn’t ask the hard questions without crying, so I just announced that I was going to cry now, and that’s the only way I could talk about these things. The vet was patient and kind and answered all my questions.
The vet confirmed that we were approaching “the end,” a time when most compassionate owners give their pet the last gift of kindness and that is to let them go when their quality of life is so bad. She explained to me how “it” was done, what my options were, and the receptionist gave me print-outs from a pet grieving support site and a link to the Rainbow Bridge poem, hugged me, and it made me cry. I had to leave Noah in the examining room for several minutes before I took him back out of the office while I begged paper towels, plastic bag and cleaning spray from the office to go out to my car and clean up the huge, creamy dump that had been baking in my car in the 90 degree heat while I was in the vet’s office. Yes, after lifting him into my car, he dumped a big pile on the seat for me. This was just one of the increasingly troublesome symptoms he experienced when the signals from the head or organs could not make their way to his hind quarters, so he couldn’t control himself, since he didn’t feel it coming! We had been cleaning up like this all over the house, no matter whether we let him outside two or twenty times a day. Thank goodness, he could still sense urination, and he did that outside.
So, that was Friday. I came home from the appointment shaken, and crying. I told the family it was nearing the end. They didn’t quite believe me, because, being so close to him, seeing him day in and day out, the progression of his symptoms was hard to distinguish. It happened so slowly, they got used to it. But I knew. Saturday, he had a great day, running around, even playing with a tennis ball, which he was very pitiful trying to chase, but he still liked to try. And if I threw it just right, he might be able to catch it, at which point he looked so proud, and promptly quit the game, saying, “I’m done! I’m great. Nothing else to prove.”
Sunday was not so good. He didn’t eat much and seemed completely worn out. He didn’t get up to greet us in the morning and he lay around most of the day. Didn’t want to go outside. He urinated on the carpet for the first time.
Monday he didn’t want to move. He started throwing up. He was pooping everywhere. He wasn’t eating. We called the vet. They said this was not good, and could we bring him in? The answer was no, when we tried to lift him he was too heavy and unwieldy and he seemed to cry in pain. They said they would send vet to us then, Tuesday, if he did not improve overnight.
Tuesday came and I was due at all day training in Reston. This was nice because Reston is a lot closer to home than my usual daily 90-minute bus commute into DC. When I got up Tuesday morning, Noah did not rise to greet me. As I made “kitchen noises” with food, which always aroused him, he stayed put on his bed, panting. When Gil offered to take him for his morning walk, he was not interested.
I left for Reston. I got to the hotel early. I parked in front of a line of trees and turned off the car then set my phone alarm for 20 minutes while I centered myself in prayer. When I was finished I went into the hotel and looked for my class. And looked some more. And checked my confirmation papers. And checked with the concierge, who kindly pointed out that the confirmation was for a class on JULY 24, not JUNE 24. Oh. Okay then. Decision – drive in to work, where there was a presentation someone was filling in for in my absence? Or drive back home and telework for the day? I thought of Noah. I drove home.
On the days I telework, Noah lies on his bed behind my chair. He always just wants to be near me. So, on this day, when he wasn’t feeling well, I thought it would comfort him (and me) to have me there in my chair near him. On any normal weekday, Noah sacks out on the floor and happily sleeps half the day away. On this day, he did not put his head down. He did not close his eyes. He did not sleep. He lay tentatively, panting and wretching, unable to move. His back legs were still completely and totally lame. He had not pooped or peed for maybe 14 hours or more, but he could not move. He would not eat. I even offered to let him lick warm beef gravy from a lunch bowl. Not interested. I put his tennis ball in front of him. Nothing. I offered him water every hour and he drank.
When I finished with my work day around 4:30, I sat down next to Noah on the floor. I talked to him in soothing tones, comforting him, stroking his head and muzzle. His eyes half-closed in thanks and pleasure or anxiety. I pet him and spent time with him. I asked him to please “tell me” if this was his time to go, to “tell me” that it was okay and that he wanted to be let go. I didn’t “hear” anything. I told him what a good dog he has been and thanked him for loving me SO much, for his devotion. I thanked him for protecting me and looking out for me all the time and for keeping me company. I told him how happy I was to have him in our life and what a handsome, gentlemanly, and special dog he was.
The vet called and said he’d be out around 8:30. Over the next few hours, the family returned home – Mary around 7:00. Gil around 8:30. The vet came shortly thereafter. He took one look at Noah and knew; he saw the obvious that had come on so suddenly (or so slowly we didn’t notice it, I’m not sure which) that we didn’t completely know. This was the end. His body was shutting down. His muscle mass was depleted. He weighed 75 pounds. He wasn’t leaving before he put this dog down. It was the only right thing to do.
He gave him a sedative and went out to his truck to wait and to give us time alone to say good-bye. He said, “This is not what I ‘signed up for,’ and I never get used to it. But, I did say I would work to relieve the suffering of animals, so I can do this.” I will never forget watching Noah as the sedative took effect. This wonderful dog, who had been panting in confused desperation and discomfort all day finally, finally put his head down on his front paws and closed his big dark eyes. His face looked soft and quiet and at peace. Finally.
Then, knowing the next injection would stop his heart, I could not watch. I left the room, but heard every word, and tears flowed while I waited in the living room. I heard them confirm his heart had stopped. I heard Mary and Seattle sniff with tears. I heard the vet say he’d carry him out to the truck. I couldn’t watch that either. It was 9:15 p.m. My Noah was gone.
I’ve never gone through this before, and wasn’t sure what the appropriate protocol was. I wrote a quick announcement in a blog and sent it out to family members.
The next morning, I got dressed and got in the car to drive to my commuter bus stop in Hamilton. As I approached the lot, I was crying so hard, I thought, “I can’t do this,” and I drove right past the lot. I found a used car lot in Hamilton and turned around in it. I made a call to my boss’s cell phone at 6:00 in the morning and got her voice-mail. I left a tortured message about how I would not be able to come in today…needed a mental health day… was a mess…Then I erased it. I tried again, but it still came out pathetic, so I erased it again. I hung up. I drove back to the commuter lot. As I approached, I saw a bus arriving and once again I was crying so hard, I drove right past. Now I’m in Purcellville. Get a grip, Carrie! I made a U-Turn in the middle of Purcellville and headed back to the commuter lot. This time I turned in, parked the car, got out and waited for another bus, glad that early morning commuters are only half awake, so no one noticed or cared that I was crying.
Life at work wasn’t much better. God help those poor souls who ventured a cheerful, “How are you this morning??” and heard my honest reaction. People were kind. They had been through this before. My staff gave me a sweet card and signed it with supportive words. I checked the blog I had written the night before, and messages of comfort were coming in from complete strangers who knew exactly what I was going through and who shared intimate and beautiful stories of pain and healing with me. It was heartening, and I made it through the work day.
On the trip home I was grateful for the impersonal, isolated nature of the DC commuters, who, even though I was sitting in close proximity to several, on a full bus, did not notice that I was falling apart as tears streamed down my face for a half hour straight. I got a phone call from my son, who wanted to come by to pay his respects and comfort us. “Okay,” I said.
I had written in my blog, “He greeted me whenever I came home, and waited patiently for me on the porch, a protective sentry and guardian. … Noah, you always waited for me. Alone. Vigilant. Ready to love me. Now you've moved on to heaven. Please wait for me there.” Well when I got home and looked to the house, there at the end of the long driveway, on the porch was my son, with a bouquet of flowers in hand. “I am your sentry and guardian waiting on the porch now. I wanted you to have a memory of me, now that Noah is not here to wait for you.” He held me tight and said comforting things while I cried and made his shirt all wet. We were the only ones home. He had brought dinner so I wouldn’t have to cook. He got it ready.
People started arriving home from work, first Mary, then Lara with Seattle, finally Gil. My whole family was there and we ate the dinner he brought and sat around our big table on the patio talking and laughing as the sun set and the fireflies came out with their magical dancing. It was like a good Irish wake and made a huge difference in our being able to cope that first night, when Noah’s death was not yet 24 hours past.
A friend asked me last night, “How was it when you had to come home, entering the house, after he died?” She said that was the hardest thing for her when her dog died. She didn’t want to go in, since he would not be there to greet her…. I think Ian completely short-circuited that type of response for me by being there waiting for me on the porch that first night. He successfully replaced the memory with a new, powerful one of him and a son’s devotion. I have no problem arriving home, walking in the house. Thank you, Ian.
It’s been a week and an hour now, as I write this, since Noah departed from this very room. One night shortly after he died, I was lying in bed, still wanting to reach out and communicate with him somehow, and as I wearied of the silence, I realized there was a song playing over and over in my head, with the words, “Did you get my message?” Oh. I thought. There is a message! So, I quieted myself and listened to Noah as I re-played his last moments as he closed his eyes, and this is what I heard: “I needed to sleep, and oh, man, that was the best sleep I’ve ever had! …I miss you.”
I miss you too, Noah. Love you.
Copyright (c) 2008 
Thank you for writing that. It is a wonderful story and goodbye. ... I cried, again.
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I don’t know what to say. You are amazing…I read this late last night and cried. Giving up Noah was very hard, especially for me. I raised him from a dumb little puppy and loved him dearly. Your document has given me peace in that we made the right decision on you and your family. It has also brought back the guilt of letting him go and the pain of missing him being around. Funny how much you realize things when it is often too late to share.
You are beautiful. Thank you so much for all the time you put into this write-up. I have passed it to my family and will keep it forever. I only hope that you are going to get another friend. That new addition is the lucky one.
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It's so good to hear from you, Bo. I'm glad I found a way to let you know about your dear Noah. And now I'm crying again!
It's all good. We're all lucky to have found each other. THANK YOU.
Love,
Carrie and family
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I am crying so hard I can't see to type this. My only comfort is knowing that we will be wuth you in a few days. I always cry at weddings, but this is the first time Ihave cried before the event! I will so miss Noah onthis trip. My favorite dog, and I don't have many of those. That proves what a great pet he was! Love to you.
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I know what you mean, Lois.
I actually thought I was over my weeping - and then I picked up Noah's ashes yesterday. Man.
Can't wait to see you, and we can share a big hug for him.
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What a beautiful, heartfelt tribute to Noah. Tears are streaming down my face right now. You made me laugh and cry at the same time. Thank you for opening up your hearts and home to this very special dog. These dogs coming through rescue are truly amazing creatures.
Thank you also for loving him so much. I am so glad you found each other.
Yours in rescue,
Lea
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It's such an honor to have been adopted by a rescued dog, to know their appreciation for having been given a second (or third) chance, to experience their loyalty, love and dedication. Thank you for sharing the joys of having Noah, and yes, the pain of losing such a treasured companion. You have honored his memory so well.
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I cried when I read this because we share so much as our family was introduced to this wonderful breed of dog when one Sunday we went to the Sterling PetMart and the Virginia Rescue was there. We had previously owned Scotties and a Golden Retriever and several other breeds which had all passed and we loved them all. We had some large dog experience and we got educated that day with all the shepherds there for adoption. And that day a nice family came in with a shepherd they could no longer keep. I volunteered with the rescue that day and held the dog for a couple of hours while other people came up to him and asked questions about him. By the end of the day he had adopted me. It all happened so fast. I filled out adoption papers, went through the interview process and the home visit. We ended up adopting him and we have never been sorry. He was a highly trained seeing eye dog whose owner we think had passed and no one in the family wanted the dog. It was our gain and we had to teach him to play and become a household pet. He was about 7 when adopted. Over the next 4 years we had him we spoiled him as much as we could. In short he was a big part of our family life and he loved his daily routine. When he passed it was horrible as he died naturally at home of cancer. We fostered other dogs from the rescue during this time and went to a lot of events to find them forever homes. It is a very rewarding experience. Since Schultz we have adopted 2 others from the rescue. They all have a way of working their way into your heart. Some you can't let go and you never want them to leave you so they end up being inseparable from your daily lives. We have one left of 3 adopted ones now and they all get the white muzzle and they all have the mobility problems when they are older and they all leave us and go to the rainbow bridge where they wait for us. Now we are hooked and we keep looking for the next one that no one wants and we want to love them and spoil them too. I don't think we have ever found a shepherd we didn't like in spite of quirky behavioral issues. We have to realize They have all been though some trauma and a loving home with lots of TLC usually brings them back as they are a remarkable breed..do everything you can to attend adoption events because there is another one waiting to come home with you.. the adoption process is the worst period of time because you have to wait and hope the would be owner and the dog turn out to be compatible but it is SO worth it. My family and I wish you the best. Our current last shepherd is so much like your dog in looks and character.....I wish we could save them all....
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Wow, Don, what a great story. I love that these dogs have chosen you. Thank you for the fostering and volunteering you do. As you can see, it makes a difference!
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