Stasis

“a state or period of stability during which little or no evolutionary change in a lineage occurs.”

You could say that the 10 days from 10-20^th March were an exercise in stasis, even though we weren’t working on evolutionary timescales. It was also a period of unstable stability—the only thing we could predict was that the near future would be unpleasant.

Three weeks ago I wrote about our dog, Silah, being our oldest dog at almost 11, with her birthday coming up on 23 March. We were celebrating the fact that she was going to reach her 11^th birthday. Then we had a nasty surprise. She’d been avoiding staircases for a while, and then we noticed she was favouring her right hind leg. We made multiple visits to the vet, until the last visit when he recommended x-rays.

Of course, the x-rays revealed bone cancer. After all this hurrah-ing and celebration about her getting old on her own terms, we were now in the same situation as we had been with all our other dogs: having to make the decision of when it was time for her to go.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She was supposed to drift off in her sleep, quietly, in a dream. We thought she might have one or two more years with us. Now we were talking weeks, as it was a particularly aggressive bone cancer that metastasized quickly.

We shifted into palliative care mode. The vet gave us a cocktail of painkillers to help ease the pain (bone cancer can be excruciatingly painful). We had a “quality of life” checklist on which we could score different aspects of her life (is she eating/drinking, is she crying, etc.) to make sure we weren’t keeping her here for us and it was really time to let her go. We researched mobile vets who could provide home euthanasia.

But mostly we spent time with her. Reading in bed in the afternoon. Sitting outside in the sun in the morning. Hanging out in the living room while she slept. We didn’t know when these days would end, so had to make the most of them. Our days were suspended, in stasis, as we fit ourselves around this new reality and watched carefully for signs of decline. If only dogs could talk, they could tell us what hurts and when they need medication. As it was, all we had to go on is external markers of discomfort, like if she was fidgeting a lot or panting hard.

As these markers worsened, though, we had to increase the pain meds, which made us wonder whether we were doing it for her or for us. It seemed cruel to have her stay alive but drugged up, so we booked an appointment with the mobile vet for Friday morning, the first day of spring.

We got Silah to meet the vet in the yard and she was woo-ing and jumping as though she was feeling just fine, whereas just an hour before she’d been struggling up the gradual hill to the front steps. It was like she was saying: hey look at me, I’m fine! But we know she wasn’t. We’d given her a dose of pain meds that morning and they were definitely kicking in.

Once inside, we got Silah settled on her mat and then went through the euthanasia process. She fought it hard – didn’t want to let go. But in the end she was gone. One ear poking out of the blanket and sling in which she was carried to the vet’s car. I caressed that ear before the vet closed the hatchback to take her to the crematorium.

This is only the second time we’ve been able to plan in advance the passing of one of our dogs. It wasn’t an emergency like it was with our three flatcoats. While it’s good to have some control over the situation and not have to suddenly put them down, it was hard to come to terms with the fact that, after Friday the 20th, we were dogless. There will be no howling at us to go outside. No one waiting in the kitchen for food. No snuggles in bed. No trips around the yard to check out bunny holes and smell the horses across the street.

We’ve had dogs for 21 years. This will be the start of a life without dogs. On the weekend we went to Ladysmith and had lunch by the water, trying to escape the quiet at home. But it was still quiet when we returned.

Silah was our most faithful companion. She went on long road trips with us and didn’t make a peep about travelling. She didn’t fuss or throw up or anything. She just lied in her ‘nest’ on the jumpseat behind the front seats, hanging out until it was time to get out and stretch our legs. She liked to be petted and have her belly rubbed, but on her own terms. Usually in bed she would wake up and roll on her back to get those all-important belly rubs. She also like to have her head petted, so we gave her lots of that, too. She had absolutely no recall—since she was a puppy she’d been very independent; she didn’t follow her humans around like the other puppies we’d had. She had a sensitive nose, sniffing people coming up the street, sniffing bunny and cat tracks in the yard. Lying in the yard just sniffing the air.

She was very attached to her people – as a German Shepherd she was a herder and preferred us to be in the same room so she could keep track of us. When it was bedtime, if I went to bed and Dave was still in the living room, she would wait in the living room for him to head in the direction of bed, then come down to the bedroom and launch herself onto the bed.

Lately that launching had become more difficult, as the cancer was in her hind leg. In hindsight there were so many things that pointed to this cancer, but we didn’t put them all together until two weeks ago. It seems as though it went fast, but really she had been declining for months already. By the time we found it in her leg, it was probably already in her organs.

We chose the first day of spring as the day to let her go. It seemed fitting be able to celebrate the new season with her and then say goodbye. Now we can remember her with the spring equinox.

It’s hard to say goodbye. The house is so quiet. We still have dog hair on our clothes and around the house. But we’ll make our way through it, with good memories and time to grieve.