I carried the trembling dog out of the car, up the stairs, and over the threshold. A “Welcome” sign in cursive typeface was posted across our door. I knew the clock was ticking and that the moments with this dog were rapidly diminishing. This is, of course, true for any living thing. But when you sign the adoption paperwork for a hospice dog, you know that the end is already near.
Local senior-dog rescue Muttville takes in old, abandoned, and neglected dogs to offer them a second chance, however late in life. Some of these dogs may have a terminal diagnosis. If their “quality of life” (a term I’d hear and discuss quite often in the time to come) was still good, they weren’t in pain, and they still loved to play, snuggle, and stroll, then Muttville tries to find them a hospice home, where these pups can live the remaining few months of their lives in comfort.
I’d cared for plenty of dogs throughout my life: as a volunteer at local shelters, during temporary foster arrangements, and more generally in my capacity as an employee in the animal-welfare field. But I’d never had my own dog.
Even though you’d never guess it from looking at her, she was expected to live for a few more months, if not weeks.
I once read that over a lifetime, humans tend to remember our most intense and most recent experiences more vividly than any others. And at the danger of anthropomorphizing our furry friends more than we already do, it makes sense to me that dogs have a similar experience. I hoped that offering a loving home to an old, abandoned dog would be one small but meaningful way to make a positive difference for an animal, no matter what had happened in her past.
When my husband saw Tara (as I later named her) listed on Muttville’s website, he immediately wanted to meet her. She turned out to be perfect in every way a dog can be: well-behaved, trusting, and sweet, she was a beautiful girl with stunning blue eyes.
We knew very little about Tara’s history. She was dropped off at an underfunded Central Valley shelter and then transferred to Muttville, where she received extensive medical care and diagnostic testing. Her organs — in particular, her kidneys and liver — were failing. Even though you’d never guess it from looking at her, she was expected to live for a few more months, if not weeks.
We all know how this story ends. But just as I knew this when we set up her cozy bed near the defunct fireplace and placed her bowls in the kitchen, picture this instead: an old but curious dog exploring her new surroundings and sniffing the Dracaena, her ears perking up at the sound of the gate outside. She found the living room window and watched a few cars drive by.
We threw Tara a welcome party. Our friends and their dogs met her. Days, then weeks, passed. We settled into a routine: frequent trips to the backyard (she couldn’t hold it for long despite how hard she tried) and long car rides to my workplace, where she slept under my desk all day.
Anyone who’s ever had a pet knows how hard it is to decide when to let them go.
At home, she followed us whenever someone left the room. We took weekend strolls in the neighborhood slowly and languidly. Quite often, people stopped us to pet her, commenting on how beautiful she was. They were surprised to learn that she was 15 years old, as far as we knew.
One afternoon, we made it all the way to Ocean Beach, where we discovered how much Tara loved water, though she avoided the waves. She instinctively knew the danger of the ocean and how little strength she had left. Amid the water and sunshine, dozens of dogs, and warm sand underneath her paws, this old dog — which I’d never seen go faster than a slow-motion trot — galloped along the shoreline. It lasted only for a few seconds, but she bursted with energy, a fleeting expression of sheer joy. We didn’t know what her life was like before she came to us, but that moment was her present and her future.
Our relationship with Tara couldn’t last. The changes were subtle but inexorable. Some mornings, Tara struggled to get on her feet. Her senses were beginning to fail her. She appeared as though she didn’t know where she was. She became anxious and unsettled at home. Food turned into a daily challenge; she lost her appetite faster than we could produce extra-tasty, fatty, stinky treats. I pleaded with her, microwaving her food and trying to hand-feed her, often with little success. Already skinny, she continued to lose weight. I dreaded what was coming next.
Anyone who’s ever had a pet knows how hard it is to decide when to let them go. I bought Tara three cups of frozen yogurt for dogs. They melted during the car ride to the vet, and I let her lick every last drop as she rested on a stack of blankets on the floor of the exam room. She was so tired. I had to hold up her chin to help her finish her treat.
The vet hospital was small and noisy. The staff was rushed but patient and compassionate. I wanted to be annoyed at them to distract myself from the anticipatory grief, but their kindness won me over. They couldn’t get an IV catheter inserted on the first few attempts — this isn’t uncommon with old, ailing animals—but it’s the type of thing that breaks your heart.
Tara went very peacefully as my husband and I held her head, scratching behind her ears. Through tears we told Tara over and over how much we loved her. A gentle sigh. Then silence.
She was only with us for four months — longer than predicted, but not nearly long enough. I still feel robbed of so much time that I wanted to spend with her. I had named her — perhaps surreptitiously — after the White Tara, mother of liberation, loving kindness, and compassion. In her spirit, I encourage you to visit Muttville’s website and to read the profiles of dogs currently waiting for hospice care. You may also wish to make a financial donation to support the program and help other dogs like Tara.
I told people that Tara was the first dog I’d ever owned, but she was never ours. Tara came into our lives for a brief while to teach us about courage, vulnerability, and opening our hearts — as well as holding lightly and letting go.
If there’s such a thing as doggie heaven, I hope Tara’s is filled with lots of Cheerios, open car windows (even when it rains), and a pack of little dogs to sniff and chase.
