Saying Goodbye to a Furry Family Member

My parents' dog, Ewok, was over 15 years old. She was a small, black poodle mix who resembled this puppy shown here (from the movie "Lady & The Tramp"). Although my mom had given her a very elegant name, I had given her the nickname "Ewok" when she was a fluffy puffball of a puppy. If she had been posed with a little spear in one paw, she would've looked exactly like an Ewok from the Star Wars series.

Ewok was a sweet, gentle, cuddly girl. She loved laps and snuggling with people. Her great favorite was my father, who seems to be able to gentle any animal; wild or tame.

When they found out that Ewok had bone cancer, my parents were devastated. Of course, ever practical, we all knew it was coming. However, my parents made the decision to keep her on pain medicine but not treat the cancer. "After all," the vet said, "once a dog has been diagnosed with bone cancer, they never live for more than 6 months... even IF you treat the cancer with chemotherapy."

They had hoped that Ewok would last a little longer. My younger brother, who is soon due to arrive from Japan, had been especially close to her and he wanted to see her one last time before she was put to sleep. And, of course, Mom and Dad were very reluctant to part from her.

But yesterday as I was on the road, I got a tearful call from my mom. Ewok had taken a turn for the worse. She was now obviously in a lot of pain and her breathing had grown labored. It was time. They had to put her to sleep, and they needed me to come dig the grave.

I hate seeing my parents upset. I had dreaded this day for that very reason, although I was also very sorry to see Ewok go. I told Mom I was on the way, and headed directly for their house.

When I got there, Mom was in tears. (As she later pointed out, ironically we have shed less tears at the death of certain family members than at the death of a pet). I hugged her, then went to greet Ewok, who was struggling to make her way to me. She still wagged her tail at me, happy to see me even though she was in pain. I've always marvelled at the sweetness of such animals, who would put your happiness above their own, even at death's door.

I petted her and spoke softly to her, and shed a few tears with my mom. Dad watched stoicly, but I knew he was in as much pain as my mom was. I was concerned that such stress might slow down his healing, since he'd been in surgery less than a week before.

Mom and Dad showed me where the shovel was, and I attended to the distasteful task of digging the grave (almost 4 feet down). When I had finished, it was time to go to the vet's.

The drive was a grim one, but we tried talking of other things in an attempt to lighten the mood. Mom had been crying all day long, and tried to distract herself by staying in conversation with me, but it wasn't easy for her.

Dad held on to Ewok tightly.

The moment we walked into the vet's, Ewok started shaking violently (she's always been scared of the vet). We had been advised to request a sedative before the euthanasia, so that she would remain calm: It would ease the process for her. A nurse came out and gave her the shot, and within minutes, Ewok was considerably calmed down, relaxed in my parents' arms.

We were soon ushered into a private room, where they weighed Ewok a final time. Mom watched everything, tears rolling quietly down her cheeks. I also cried silently, in pain for my parents. Even Dad's eyes were red-rimmed.

Finally it was time.

My parents laid her gently on a soft blanket on the table, keeping their hands on her, stroking her as the vet administered the final shot. Ewok's breathing slowed, and finally faded. A moment later, he checked for a heart beat and pronounced her dead.

I stayed behind to settle up the bill, while Mom and Dad waited in the car to make the long journey home.

Dad held her all the way home.

When we got home, we headed to the grave. Ewok was in a little box, but we bury our pets "as is", letting the earth and the worms do as nature intended. (Some day, I hope that my wishes will be respected and I'll be given the same sort of burial). So, my dad gently removed her from the box, arranging a towel around her carefully before he lowered her into the ground. I then filled in the hole, as they looked on.

With almost a sense of relief, we headed to the house. The worst was now over and there was no going back. And yet, this morning their house is quieter and only one dog remains. Mom worries that he will miss Ewok, but Dad dismisses that. He thinks the separation will have little impact on the remaining dog. As he indicates, they're only dogs.

However, Dad's eyes show something different.