At the end of 2022,just as I was copy editing the final pages of my novelWhy We Are Here,my beloved companion dog,Baby,who had been my guardian and muse for six years,started limping.
Briohny Doyle’s beloved dog,Baby.Nash Ferguson
“I’m not ready for old age,” I lamented to friends. But one of the tragic and beautiful facts of living with a companion animal is that you can meet them when they are young,goofy,unsure,and watch as they outgrow you,becoming softer,slower,wiser. It’s a heartbreaking privilege to witness and attend to a whole life,while you are still grappling with your paltry decade of concerns.
The vet assessed Baby’s limp and prescribed some anti-inflammatories. They agreed with my web diagnosis. Likely,arthritis. If the medication didn’t help or only worked for a short while though,we would need some X-rays. Baby,a large breed dog in middle age,sits in the most common demographic for canine osteosarcoma. At home,she ate pills hidden in butter and I braced myself as I Googled.
The meds worked for a fortnight,then stopped. Worst-case scenario. Statistics predicted a survival time of four months to a year,depending on the course of treatment. We oscillated approaches,living every day as though it might be her last.
It’s sad to admit,but I’m a seasoned griever. I already have routines,rituals. I know how to weather the storm,how to wash up in the wreck. I’ve lost loved ones – human and non-human – and know enough to understand that the death of a companion animal is distinct. While human adults have led independent lives,your animal likely spends its whole life either with you,or waiting around for you to get home. They didn’t choose this set-up,but for many,it’s not a bad gig.
During the summer after Baby’s diagnosis,I was assaulted with a barrage of ethical decisions. Each one agonised me. What is a month of life worth? A year? Does a year of life justify a month of pain? What is quality of life for anyone? What is it,specifically,for the dog I love and know best? When I was told that virtually no dog diagnosed with this disease has died from it,I realised that the statistics predict the toleration point of human owners more than the progression of the disease.
For her part,Baby refused to let cancer slow her down. When the tumescent leg broke (an imagined deadline for euthanasia) she tucked it up and hopped around after me. I discovered my toleration point was higher than many – I could not put down someone so full of life. The dreaded surgery then. Less than 24 hours later she hopped out of the clinic and jumped in my van.
I soon had the privilege of learning that three-legged dogs go faster.
Briohny and Baby,before she lost her leg.Nash Ferguson
On her last morning we ran along the cliffs where we used to walk. I was euphoric,filled with pride. Watching an animal overcome challenges deepens your love and respect beyond what you thought possible. Just a few hours later though,I got out of the shower to find Baby standing oddly at the bathroom door. Something was wrong. The vet advised a painkiller and a close eye. It wasn’t long before we were at the clinic,faced with another impossible ethical choice. Baby had septic peritonitis,a gut infection,the classic cause of which is eating a kebab skewer.
“But there’s no way to know without surgery,” the vet advised. The survival rate was 50/50.
After her cancer diagnosis,I’d become obsessed with giving Baby a “good death”,which meant,by my conception,dying in the arms of the one you love the most.
In the treatment room,Baby was given fluids,and I was given time with her and the impossible decision. Was a 50 per cent chance at life worth a 50 per cent chance at dying on an operating table,instead of in your loved one’s arms?
When the vet stepped out – to give us more,though never ever enough,time – Baby shook off the monitor and walked over to the armchair where she’d sat on previous visits. I helped her climb up and sat on the floor with my arms around her. She turned and settled. Pushed her head in the crook of my elbow and sighed deeply,as though finally comfortable. I stroked her lovely fur,talked to her,trying to keep my voice as bright as I could.
“With me,” I said. “It’s OK,you’re with me.”
She nuzzled in close,sighed again and died.
I felt energy that was present move from her to me and dissipate,like the oxygen was sucked from the room,like a blast at a tiny hypocentre. The vet returned,repeating that it was time to decide. “I think she’s gone,” I said. I’d wanted to give Baby a good death but,in the end,this was her last gift to me.
I would never end a story with a newborn. It’s a cheesy cliché. Politically regressive. But in real life,infants are born all the time.
In this case,less than a month after Baby passed,a rescue organisation called. Inflation,the aftermath of COVID and the rental crisis has placed unprecedented pressure on animal shelters. Could I be an emergency foster carer for a puppy?
The tiny,fuzzy little fireball and his littermates arrived from the country in the middle of the night. The pups were passed out the window of a packed station wagon. I took one at random and called him Bobby McGee. Forty-five minutes later he was sleeping on the end of my bed with his legs in the air.
I spent the next month grieving and caring for Bobby McGee,knowing that we were each other’s temporary respite. We ate a lot. We played. We ripped things up. Ran about madly and collapsed. Cuddled. Cried. Napped. We took small steps out into the world.
Bobby has a new name now. He’s found his “forever home” – a phrase I’ve always felt conflicted about because it’s so twee,isn’t it? A sentimental,unrealistic dream.
But then,like a “good death”,it might also be a state of grace,a site of elemental longing.
(Penguin Random House) by Briohny Doyle is out now.
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