This is One Thing, a column with tips on how to live.
On a Friday morning in July three years ago, I took Bailey, our Weimaraner, for a checkup with her oncologist. Her legs were getting weaker, and she was slipping and falling frequently. An ultrasound of her liver confirmed my suspicion: Our yearlong battle with melanoma was ending. “How long?” I blubbered through sobs. Our vet replied in a steady, somber tone, “Take the weekend.”
When I walked into the house and hugged my husband, Andrew, I said, “Nothing else matters through Monday evening at 6.” Bailey was our first dog, and we’d had her for 13 years. Thirteen years of her leaning into our legs when she wanted affection, squeaking her hedgehog toy until the squeaker wore out, and serving as pit crew chief on wild bird hunting trips with her Vizsla friends. Now, we only had three more days. I was determined to do nothing except spend them with her and Andrew.
I canceled my horse-riding lesson. We rescheduled our workouts. The chore list went in the drawer. Everything that previously seemed essential and critical for our daily lives was downgraded to “unimportant”; it would only subtract from the time left with Bailey.
We took short walks on our farm when the day’s heat subsided, letting her lead wherever she wanted to roam and sniff. I griddled her favorite treat—blueberry pancakes from scratch.
We snuggled on the couch, watching movies like You’ve Got Mail, the kind that wrap you in a big hug and shield you from the passing of time. My hands gently rubbed her soft, taupe coat, comforting her, comforting myself.
Andrew and I shared our treasured Bailey stories, like how she helped my mother-in-law overcome her fear of dogs, and the time the agility instructor kicked us out of class because she ran around the building and wouldn’t come when called. We talked about how touch was our Queen B’s love language, and we were going to miss the feel of her paw placed on our knees and her nose nudging our arms to pet her. We created a shared photo album and asked her loyal fans to add their favorite photos of Bailey.
When you love a dog, you know the day will arrive when you have to say goodbye. But you can’t predict when or how it will unfold. Andrew and I had promised each other that we would never let our dogs suffer just so we could have more time with them. Bailey was ready.
Nothing could have made letting her go easier. But I was grateful we were able to put our to-do’s in the drawer and make our last days with her feel like a slow-moving stretch, devoted to just hanging out as a family. The ability to take the lead on how you spend time with your dog in their final moments is a gift. It doesn’t always happen that way.
And at the end of our blueberry pancake–filled weekend, she passed peacefully in her favorite dog bed. In a whisper, I told her she was the best dog ever, that she was beautiful, and that we loved her, as her heart beat for the last time.
