Let me share a story about my boy Mickey, affectionately known as "Picky Eater," a nickname that was more ironic than accurate. Mickey was a literal vacuum cleaner, a dishwasher who could clean a plate better than any appliance. But when Mickey was diagnosed with kidney disease, things started to change—slowly, almost imperceptibly at first.
One of my markers for Mickey's quality of life was his appetite. When "Picky Eater" actually became picky, a dog not eating, I knew something was up. He stopped enjoying food, one of his main reasons to wake up each day. But the changes were so gradual that I kept moving the lines in the sand. I told myself, "When he quits eating, I'll know it's time." But when he stopped eating his usual kibble and only wanted people food, I shifted the line: "When he quits eating food I cook for him, then I’ll know it’s time."
Soon, Mickey was only interested in hotdogs on one day and pasta the next. I moved the line again: "When he quits eating hotdogs..." But even when he only took a single bite, I clung to that bit of normalcy. I’m sure you can relate: pending loss puts blinders on you, letting you see only what you want to see. I call these bits of normalcy "glimmers"—fleeting moments of normal behaviors that you hold onto, even when the rest of the day for them, well, kinda sucks.
In a state of reflection, I watched old home videos of Mickey and his sidekick, Emmy, our other dog at the time. I was shocked at the difference from just a year ago— a difference I didn’t really appreciate because the changes were more subtle and my lines kept moving. My once vibrant Mick-dog was now a rack of bones, weak, and for lack of softer words, just seemed "done." Yet, the voice in my heart insisted, "But he ate one piece of hotdog today!"
I euthanized him when he collapsed and fell down the stairs in our backyard. Picking him up, he looked at me like, "I'm more than ready." And that was my regret—waiting too long so that his last day was not his best day. He went out on a low note instead of a high note. I could have changed that, but my moving lines in the sand made one move too many.
I knew I had waited too long and I scolded myself, “Shea, you know better.” As a vet, I've heard my whole career, "Better a week too soon than a day too late," when it comes to making “the decision.” That training all went out the window when it came to my own boy.
But I know I'm not alone. Many other pet parents experience this and live with the "woulda, shoulda, coulda" regrets. And that's what this post is about: raising awareness, being OK with beginning the conversation, being frank, and learning how to recognize when we are moving those lines in the sand and glimmers. Because while there is no perfect time, there is a best time. And we should aim for no regrets—or as close as we can get to that.
Easier said than done, right? Well, let’s break down some common regrets and how to help avoid them.
1. Dragging It Out: Like with Mickey, we often cling to those little glimmers of normalcy, shifting the line until it's too late. To help avoid this, set clear, realistic markers for your pet's quality of life and (try to) stick to them. Revisit them often. Get a friend to help—someone who can give you the real talk on what's happening. Ask questions and lean on your vet. Remember, it's about their comfort, not our fear of letting go.
2. Skipping the Goodbye Prep: One of my pet end-of-life mantras is “death has no do-overs.” You don’t get a second chance to improve a death that didn’t go as planned and waiting until crisis mode can steal those intentional goodbyes. It’s tough, but planning ahead can ensure death is done right and that your last moments are how you want them to be. Begin the conversation early. Think about how you want those last days to look like and make arrangements in advance. This ensures your pet's final moments are just how you want them.
3. Misalignment: When it comes to your pet's end-of-life care, align your choices with your values and your pet's needs. What matters most? Comfort, quality of life, or something else? Let these values guide your decisions.
4. Ignoring Your Pet's Perspective: Consider what your pet would want if they could tell you. Are they still loving their favorite activities, or just going through the motions? Be cognizant of those glimmers and moving lines. In Micky's case, his shift from eating everything to only eating hotdogs was a significant change. This behavior was abnormal, but I came to accept it as normal largely due to (if I’m honest with myself) not wanting to face the reality of his declining health. Don't let the fear of letting go turn abnormal behaviors into your pet's new normal. Like Micky's sudden preference for hotdogs, these changes can signal deeper issues. Stay vigilant and true to what you know is best for your pet. Let their behavior—not just the glimmers—guide you.
5. Ignoring Your Gut: You know your pet better than anyone. If something feels off, trust your instincts and dig deeper. Can you have pet death trauma? Absolutely. It's a real and valid experience that many pet owners go through, which is why it's crucial to approach this process with care and support.
6. Flying Solo: You don’t have to navigate this journey alone. Talk It Out: Whether it’s with a friend, family member, or therapist, talking helps you process. Sharing stories and memories with others can be a healing part of grieving the loss of a pet after euthanasia. Join a Community: Join an online or in-person pet loss support group to connect with others who “get it” and can provide comfort and validation. Build a Support Network: Surround yourself with people who understand your bond with your pet. They can offer a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on, or just a distraction when you need it. Remember: it’s OK to ask for help.
In the end, although not easy, it's all about moving through this time with as much love and authenticity as possible. By taking charge, staying in the know, and leaning on your support network, you can make the best choices for both you and your pet. If you approach pet euthanasia and death with eyes (and heart) wide open, you can diminish regrets and mindfully honor the bond you share—just like I wish I had done with Mickey.
~ Dr. Shea
P.S. Pictured is Mickey's actual dog tag; still on our keychain 20 years later.