Goodbye, Charlie
The call came at 9:30 PM in the middle of the week. A woman sobbing asked me to pick up her dog in northeast Dallas and take it to a vet and have it euthanized. He was an 11-year-old large breed who couldn’t get up anymore because of a genetic disease.
The home was in an area behind a group of warehouses. The residences were square buildings with paint-worn wood siding and unpaved driveways. Yet, the neighborhood felt comfortable and safe, even though it was quite late at night. When I saw her, she was standing underneath a bare bulb above a simple slab porch. The glow made her look as if she were surrounded by a halo.
She was a middle-aged woman with bright red hair that looked like the color had been painted on. A housecoat of many colors flapped around her rotund body as she approached the van barefoot. Wiping tears from her eyes she softly said. “I’ll be outside in the back with the other animals. I can’t bear to say goodbye.” She called out to a man leaning against the side fence asking him to help and hurried to the back of the house.
Charlie was grouchy and didn’t like strangers and I was no exception. I spoke gently and saw the tail wag a couple of times though the growl was serious. The neighbor and I slowly pushed the carrier until Charlie was scooped inside. He made only verbal protests.
I talked to him during the 30 mile trip, but he never answered me. The van maneuvered easily into the parking space in front of the door, placing the curb next to Charlie’s crate. The pet gurney rolled out the back and was put next to the rear door. Wearing a pair of bite-proof gloves, it was hard to grasp the carrier, so I tossed them to the side and scooted the carrier out backwards. Charlie’s displeasure was clear and I wasn’t giving him an opportunity to physically display it.
One of the front desk attendants ushered us into a room near the surgery area where we were left to ourselves. The vet was with another patient and it took about an hour before we saw the technician again.
Each time someone walked down the hallway, Charlie would growl, so I sat down on the floor in front of him and started to talk with him. At first he emitted a low warning growl, but, soon started “talking” by changing his vocal patterns. I discussed what would happen and assured him he would simply go to sleep. It would be completely painless and a real joy to cross the veil. I told him how wonderful it would be to see his family and all the people who had gone before him. Several times a wide smile spread from ear to ear. I knew he understood and had thoughts of his own about this experience, “Was it going to hurt, would it take long, will he know what’s happening.” That night I was given the gift to understand. I knew what Charlie was saying and Charlie knew I knew.
The technician came and said they would need to tranquilize him. They wheeled him into the operating area and I was relegated to the waiting room. I read a magazine and everything on the walls. The TV was on and I watched for five minutes, read some more, drank water, went to the restroom and did everything I could to keep occupied.
The tech came and told me they would bring Charlie back to the room and I could join him. I brought a magazine to read and started to open it when Charlie came in barely awake. He was placed on a stainless steel table attached to the wall and folded down. It would be cool and relaxing to Charlie. He had no strength to fight anymore. I told him there was healing waiting for him.
He barely moved as I stroked him and spoke love. I told him how much his mistress loved him and would miss him. That she had sent me because she knew I loved him, too. I talked about what it would be like when he got to the other side. We continued in this way until the vet came in and administered the dose. Charlie’s eyes were open, but droopy. His voice became a snore, but he wasn’t asleep.
Slowly, over a 30-minute period of time, his eyes closed. I continued stroking and talking to him. My arms went around his middle, hugging him, speaking of the animal kingdom he would soon join. His breath became shallow, yet his heart beat on.
The vet came back to check on him and said he would need to administer another dose. Charlie wasn’t giving up.
A strange quiet settled in on us once the second dose was given. Only Charlie and I were in the room. The air conditioning whirred in the background and he was now in a deep sleep. He had started his walk into eternity across the Rainbow Bridge.
In less than five minutes, the vet reappeared, this time a stethoscope around his neck. Vets do not like to administer the euthanasia dose and I could tell by the way the vet stroked Charlie that he was no different. We stood by and waited for the final beat of Charlie’s heart.
The sound of Charlie’s breathing became heavier, and the heartbeat weaker. The vet said there was almost no blood pressure. I put my arms around Charlie’s middle again; he was now lying on his left side, facing the wall. I laid my cheek against the fur behind his ears and spoke of the miracle of healing about to happen. My hand was over his heart when it stopped. The vet listened and once again applied the stethoscope to Charlie’s chest. After a moment, he looked up at me, nodded his head and said, “He’s gone.”
I didn’t say goodbye. I smiled instead, knowing that my friend and I had experienced these special moments together. Every stroke and soothing word had held hope that the ordeal was made easier for him. We were partners in the Crossing of the Veil.
The vet assured me that he would be taken care of with dignity. Gathering my belongings, I told the vet they did not need to return the leash, and walked forward into an empty lobby. Empty indeed. Charlie was no longer with me.
Outside, I looked at the dark sky with the jewel-like sparkle of the stars giving the only light. It was 1:05 AM. “Good night, Charlie. Happy eternity.”
Julie Grant is owner of Pet Chauffeur Transport, a pet chauffeur company that operates in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex and suburbs. She is available for special presentations and talks. Pet Chauffeur appreciates your comments and encourages you to send them, whether pro or con, to oegrant2@juno.com. All contents and articles on this website are copyrighted and require the express written permission of the author for copies, distribution, or use outside of this website.
