Doc

Today I did the most difficult thing I've ever had to do. I had Doc put down.

Jill went with me. She offered to go with me. I didn't have to ask, which was awesome, because that's a rather strange favor to ask of someone.

I did okay at the vet's office. Yeah, I cried. How could I not? Doc was my constant companion. The furry friend who, until recently, greeted me with a wagging tail when I came home from work. He was also my bodyguard -- always putting himself between me and anyone else. Above all else, he was my friend. We loved each other very much.

I adopted Doc almost exactly two years ago. He was old. The rescue group from which I adopted him said he was between 10 and 12. The first vet I visited said he was probably about 14 or 15. The second vet I took him to said he was definitely at least 16. However old he was, his previous owners lost their home and could no longer care for him. He ended up in the Jefferson County animal shelter, and when they couldn't find a home for him, they called the St. Louis Senior Dog Project, who took him in, for better or for worse.

They set his adoption fee at $50 because of his age. And his cataracts. And his "selective hearing." And his arthritis. And his senility.

After our vet visit today, Jill and I stopped to get something to eat. We figured he had at least six chronic conditions -- diagnosed or otherwise -- based on his behavior. Over the last month or so, he spent most of his time sleeping. It took him two or three days to eat what he would have normally consumed in a day. He would scratch at the door at 3 AM until I got up and let him outside, at which point, he would just stand there, seeming to forget why he wanted out so badly in the first place. He sometimes barked and growled at me like I was a stranger. The daily greetings at the door were all but gone.

Except for the last few days. After weeks of agonizing over this decision, I called the vet and made an appointment to have him put down. Every day since making the appointment, he would be waiting for me at the door, tail wagging. I'm not going to read into this at all. I'm just stating that after I made the appointment, he met me at the door every day when I came home from work.

I was hoping he'd just die quietly in his sleep. I was hoping we'd be able to avoid that one last car ride. But that wasn't in the cards.

I could have very easily let him keep on living for however long he had left, but he was in pain. I had to wake him up every morning and pick him up to carry him outside. I would have kept doing it, too, if I knew he wasn't in any pain. But he was in pain.

He was constantly rubbing his eyes, which had a constant stream of what I can only describe as snot seeping out of the corners. The vet had given me medicine for that a while back. I gave it to him weekly. It would clear things up for a day or two, but it would just get worse again. He took thyroid pills every day to give him the energy to get up, walk around, and eat. I went for about a week once without giving him any pills -- I needed to get more from the vet -- and most of that time, he just slept.

As Jill drove off, I walked in my house, Doc's empty collar and leash in my hand. I saw his food and water bowls, his blankets, bits of his fur that were constantly falling out. I broke down and cried.

Even though I know in my heart that I did the right thing, the responsible thing, it's still the hardest thing I've ever done.