Most stories probably begin at the beginning, but here we are starting at the end. Rory was my heart dog. Our heart dog. She was equally bonded to both me and my husband John. Our favorite activity together was walking. Walking trails, walking beaches, walking sidewalks, walking neighborhoods – you name it, we’ve walked it. The walks have looked different in different seasons of life. Which is what makes relationships with our dogs so significant. “A beloved dog walks with us through the wars that assail us”. I recently came across this quote by New Testament Professor, Robert Yarbrough and I was just struck by how fitting it was considering my ponderings the past few years about my walks with Rory. I started the Instagram profile WalksWIthRory in a different season a few years ago, but it really helped me treasure the walks with my dog and see the love and mercy of God throughout the story of my life. My final two walks with Rory weren’t the most breathtaking or the most adventurous, but they were precious and truly filled with God’s mercy and grace. 

Rory turned sixteen on June 9. Her health problems had started a few months prior. We had known markers in her blood work were not good the previous summer. Multiple scans over the months didn’t provide any clear indication of what was going on. In April, her symptoms became noticeable so we did some more bloodwork but the vet didn’t really have a grasp on it. Her vet office kind of shifted us around and we no longer saw the more experienced vet who knew her and we were dumped with a young gal who did not know her.  Around that time we started seeing a vet closer to home who could do the acupuncture and laser treatments for her arthritic back. At the first appointment she told me Rory either had dementia or a brain tumor or possibly both. She likely had around six months left. Maybe a year. We started her on some new supplements and they seemed to help until they didn’t. Her pacing increased. She had trouble settling and John had to cradle her to get her to fall asleep once she was exhausted from pacing. She walked but at some point she just seemed to zone out and power walk through the rest. I could barely keep up with my old dog who had gone so slow sniffing everything for 16 years.

By August the house was becoming doggy dementia secure. Gates, blankets and boxes blocked off stairs, railings, corners and appliances so she wouldn’t fall, crash or get stuck too often. Unfortunately, like a toddler, the one day at the one moment, they will find the one thing that they shouldn’t. The blankets covering the railing above the stairwell had inched over just enough for her to see the railing, I guess. I had just left to run a few errands. I called home to see if we needed more of this or that. The phone went quiet and my husband says, “Come home now, she’s hurt.” She needs to go in. I panicked. I sent my closest friends and family a quick text, Pray for Rory. There was no time for details. Before I got on the road again, I mapped the closest emergency vet and started calling. Vets and ER vets are hard to see nowadays. Apparently, there are none left since Covid. Yay. I race the few minutes home and run inside, with instructions that we can bring her into this ER vet nearby and they can triage her. It could then be a 4-6 hour wait if she needs anything. Only when I got inside, she looked okay. I mean she was alive and not bleeding. John explained she went through the railing and fell the 4.5 feet to the platform between the floors. The way she was splayed out, he thought she broke her neck. But somehow, in the those few minutes before I got home, she got up by herself. We rushed her to the ER vet and they took her back. We were both afraid this would be it. Eventually they called us back to a little conference room. I was beside myself. But they brought her into us. Said she appears to be fine. Nothing was broken but she may be sore from the fall. The very nice vet asked some questions about her issues (maybe it’s a brain tumor) and very kindly offered the advice that it was okay if we think it’s time to put her down. But we weren’t there. Our dog just lived. We took Rory and her pain meds home. Such began the last week.

Two days later we had a scheduled visit with her physical therapy vet and we discussed what had happened. “I think it’s time,” she said. But. But. But she’s walking and eating, I pleaded. She said she has to eat to live. She then asked what it would take for me to feel like it’s time. She kindly lasered Rory’s back and all over her neck where she landed. We left with things to think about. Saturday night was hard. She paced all night. At one point she stopped along her circle route and put her head in my hands. It truly felt like she was saying, “Mom, please make it stop”. I cried and cried. On Monday morning we had an appointment with her regular vet to talk about treatment options. They pretty much said it’s time and we can give her some meds to help everyone get some sleep but it’s time to make a plan for the end.

As we drove home, we were faced with the question of how do you make this decision? How do you decide when? We stopped at the grocery store and I could barely get through the store. I wanted to cry, scream, wail. I wanted to be wearing black and for everyone to know I was mourning for my precious puppy. So many feelings. Bargaining. Anger. Denial. Crying out to God. How was this real? How have we reached the end? We spent the afternoon watching her and sizing up the situation. The vet suggested trying the meds for a week. It wasn’t going to fix anything though. Could we make this decision? I scoured the dog dementia Facebook group for the millionth time. Buried in a comment thread someone posted an article called “The Good Death”, written by Dr. Mel Newton, a country vet who has provided end of life care for all kinds of animals. I read the article out loud to John. We were both in tears. We both knew what we had to do. This article flipped the question from “how do I know when it’s time?” to “what are you waiting for?”.

I picked up the phone and dialed the numbers to the local vet who provides at home end-of-life services. I could barely speak the words. I started crying immediately. The receptionist was so, so kind. She has clearly received this phone call many times before. She told me to breathe. That she needed me to get oxygen. She was kind and patient as I forced the words to form. “We have appointments available Wednesday or Thursday afternoon”, she replied. My mind tried to lay out the week. Two days or three days left with my dog? Wednesday? I have responsibilities. Thursday? I guess it’s Thursday. She said I could take the evening and talk to my husband. We cried more tears as we let this take shape in our brains and hearts. I didn’t want to lose the appointment and wait another week for her to struggle further. They close at 6pm. At 5:59, I dialed the number again. “I am sorry to call so late. I know you want to go home”. The kind voice told me to not apologize at all. That they were happy to help me and take as long as we need. We went through the details. Then I asked for the out option. What is the cancellation policy, just in case there is a miracle? “The morning of, we will call to confirm. There is no charge to cancel for end-of-life services.” I had my out and thus began the timer to the end.

Walks. Snuggles. Lots of filet mignon. Love. Kisses. Tears. Fears. Grief. Lamenting. Those days are a blur. I got a text from a friend back home in CA. They were in Washington and hoping to see us on Friday. Not just any friends but two of the most loving people I have ever met in my life. And somehow God placed them in WA the week that was going to be my hardest ever. I was honest and wasn’t sure I would be up to company, but just the idea that God had put them in close proximity gave me so much peace. On Wednesday morning I went to volunteer at CareNet, a pregnancy resource clinic, like I always do. I wanted to be around people and I knew these ladies loved their animals too. We sat around the table and shared stories and grief. We were all in tears. We all prayed together.  I left wrapped in love.

Wednesday night we drove to our favorite state park, Scenic Beach in Seabeck. It was our routine. We love the trails and the views. Rory loved the ferns and digging on the beach. While this time was just a walk and probably more for us than her, it was good to do one last time. We sat on the porch in rockers and watched her look out over the ocean through the railing. I snapped a quick picture to remember. At some point I panicked because the next day I was going to have to tell everyone that my beloved dog was gone. I had no words. I had nothing to say. No story. No clever epitaph. There was nothing. But God heard that cry of my heart. As we rounded a corner, a women came up to us and asked if Rory was a beagle. “Yes”, I replied. She then asked if she was a puppy. I laughed. My 16-year-old girl, the night before her death and I am being asked if she was a puppy. My heart leapt because all of the sudden I had something to say. This was Rory. Everyone has always asked if she was a puppy. People with their old looking beagles asking how young she was, only to reply that she as 3-5 years older than their dog. We always laughed at their astonishment. Why would tonight be any different?

Thursday was long day of waiting. What do you all day in anticipation of the worst moment of your life? Well, we walked. We walked at our favorite park. We took multiple laps because we didn’t want it to end. She sniffed in the ferns. (Thank you, Lord, for giving her that moment – for me.) She napped at home. She was held. We cried. I prepared. Pictures were spread out. The page in my Every Moment Holy liturgy book was flagged. Piles of bacon were cooked. We weren’t sure where we should do it. Over the years I had imagined she would be in our bed with both of us next to her. Kissing her and whispering to her all the things we’ve whispered to her over the last sixteen years. But that wasn’t reality anymore. She didn’t get on the bed now. She was deaf. Her mind wasn’t fully there. So we were just in the living room and completely unsure of how it would happen. The doorbell rang. Oh gosh, here we are.

Peace. Peace as only God can bring it. “She’s ready”, the vet said as soon as she saw her. The vet has been doing this service for over 13 years and she said she can always tell. We chatted and she watched Rory circle around. “Brain cancer”, she said, “that’s not just dementia”. Peace. There was nothing more we could try that would change anything. And nothing I could have done that would have changed it. Peace and relief washed over me. We fed her as much bacon as she wanted as the first shot of sedatives were given. She was in my lap when they started to kick in and she began to slump into me. “I guess we’re doing it here”, I said. And in that moment, I knew there was truly no better place for it to happen. As she fell asleep (just sleep), I held her in my arms and kissed her. I whispered all the things that I’ve always whispered to her. I could feel the weight of pain and disease lift off her body.  She felt like young Rory again. Relief from the tightness of old age. Soft and relaxed. She laid on me for quite some time as we cried and reminisced.

As the final shot was administered, we read and prayed the liturgy for losing a pet. “Here was your good creature, O Lord, pondered and called to life by your own compassionate design… our hearts are unprepared for such loss and we are deeply grieved… We are thankful for the many blessings of knowing this creature and for the lingering imprint of such a cherished presence in our lives… now we say goodbye… O Lord, how long till all is made right?… for what we feel in this loss in nothing less than the groan of all creation… You are merciful and loving, gentle and compassionate, caring tenderly for all that you have made… so that even our sorrow at the loss of this beloved creature will somehow, someday be met and filled, and, in joy, made forever complete…”. We handed our girl and our broken hearts back to the Creator and tried to bring Him glory in the hardest of places.

I hung on to her and we kissed her as she lay limp in my arms, eventually resting her on a blanket. I laid next to her and kissed her like I always had. We wrapped her up and as the vet picked her up to carry her out, her beautiful big ear flopped out of the blanket. I rushed to it and kissed it over and over again and tucked it back in.

This death was a truly beautiful experience. I am so grateful to God for allowing it to be like this, intentional and enveloped in love, and not after the tragic stairwell accident. My heart is forever in awe of His goodness, His kindness and His compassion.

RORY ILENE 6/9/07-8/17/23